


From Her to Eternity

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Romance, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, married sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-21 22:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12467224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Molly Hooper has been feeling strange lately, and when she's plagued by visions of dark figures watching her through the shadows, she wonders whether she's losing her mind, or if something sinister is haunting her.





	1. Breathless

Molly Hooper was exhausted.

It was 7 o’clock on a Friday evening, and she forced herself to step away from the autopsy, removing her bloodstained gloves and throwing them in the hazard bin. She let out a deep breath, stretching her tired arms over her head, hearing the bones and muscles crack and protest from over use, the sound of her joints resettling ricocheting in the empty morgue.

Closing her eyes, she wondered what was wrong with her, if anything was wrong at all.

She’d been ridiculously tired lately, perpetually hungry, and irritable. Being a person who prided herself on being logical and level-headed, she’d gone through the symptoms in her head countless times. And once through with her list, which took into account the fact that she slept, her work hours were steady and manageable, had a healthy diet, she came up empty. She’d even taken a pregnancy test but that had turned out to be a false lead.

There was nothing wrong with her, at least not anything that she could think of.

Which meant that it was something else, an underlying illness that was too serious for her to detect by herself.

The very thought had her donning fresh gloves, refusing to think about the implications of her symptoms and found herself praying to whatever God was listening that nothing serious be wrong with her. With her goggles firmly in place again, she went back to unceremoniously weighing the organs of the poor man laying open in front of her.

Molly honestly lacked the patience to deal with a serious illness.

Her thoughts drifted away again, her tired brain refusing to keep her thoughts on track. Maybe it was the changing season, she thought to herself. She’d always loved the shift from Summer to Fall, always welcoming the cold weather and the opportunity to cuddle in front of the fireplace with a steaming mug of cocoa, a good book, and her love. But she’d always hated October, there was something spooky about it.

And she’d never particularly understood Halloween either, not even as a child. She’d dressed up in costumes just because everyone else did, but she never really enjoyed it. She was brave enough to admit now that there was something decidedly unsettling about the whole affair.

Especially the fact that people put giant, hairy spiders willy-nilly wherever they chose to. A card-carrying arachnophobe, Molly had refused to get coffee from the canteen upstairs because they’d decided to decorate the entire place with spider webs and rather real-looking spiders.

But she forced her thoughts to the autopsy she was in the middle of, refusing to think about the fact that it was a week from Halloween, and she was alone in the morgue with several dead bodies. Suddenly noticing the silence, she focused on her breathing, on forcing her thoughts to the task at hand and not on how much she wished she’d turned on her music before getting started.

Molly had managed to keep herself focused for about twenty minutes, making steady progress on the autopsy for Scotland Yard when her ears twitched, picking up an unfamiliar sound. She glanced up the glass partition, her heart beating out of her chest. The sound must’ve been so soft that her ears had only picked up the vibrations, not the actual noise. Frowning, she convinced herself her frazzled, tired nerves were playing tricks on her.

She’d prided herself on her pragmatism over the years, developing thick enough skin to be able to work as a pathologist directly under Scotland Yard. You would think that the amount of violent deaths she had seen, the severity of the violence she had encountered over the years, would’ve helped her become less immune to the spooky things that cropped up with Halloween’s impending doom.

But Molly had seen enough of the world to know that there was more than met the eye.

When she heard the sound again, louder, a bang of metal doors, she straightened up. Careful to remove her gloves and goggles, she tried to think of what to do, glancing around for a heavy object she could use to defend herself. She heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall and her heart began to race, grabbing the bone-saw and inanely wondering if she would actually use it to defend herself.

The footsteps drew nearer, the sound of heavy boots with heavy bodies using them, carrying them forward, closer and closer to the lab she was using.

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, frozen as she heard the rumble of male voices, the distinct shift of several large bodies that echoed with every footfall of those heavy boots.

She barely managed to contain her scream when the double doors of the morgue swung up unceremoniously and Sherlock Holmes waltzed in, hands stuffed in his coat, his cheeks and nose red from the cold weather outside with the blue scarf wrapped expertly around his throat. “Jesus fuckin _Christ,_ ” she hissed, nearly collapsing in relief when she saw him.

“No, just me,” he said in that arrogant baritone, removing his leather gloves in his methodical way.

“Did you bring an army with you?” she asked, finding the chair behind her and dropping into it, her heart still racing so fast she thought she would pass out.

“Nope,” Sherlock answered, popping the P as he always did, “are you alright, Molly?”

She had bent over, putting her head between her knees and taking deep breaths, “no,” she managed, “you scared the hell out of me! Who’s with you?” she demanded.

All pretenses of casualness dropped from Sherlock’s tone, the automatic nonchalance that he adopted for the world dropping as he noticed just how shaken Molly truly was. “I’m alone Molly,” he answered, walking towards her and dropping to his haunches in front of her, cupping her cheek in his hand and frowning at how cool it felt to the touch.

Her brown eyes were troubled and wide when she lifted her head to look at him, “I swear I heard more than one person,” she murmured, frowning.

“You’re just tired,” he assured her, running his thumb beneath her cheek before pressing a kiss to that sweet space between her eyes, “you’ve been working too hard,” he murmured, holding the contact.

She gripped her husband’s wrist, closing her eyes as she breathed him in, blooming in the aching familiarity of his touch. “Probably,” Molly agreed, “why are you here?” she finally asked.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, sitting back on his haunches, “just solved another case for Scotland Yard,” he told her, “it was barely a 4 but a good distraction while I waited for you to finish with your shift. I figured I’d come by and see if you were done, so we could go home together.”

Molly smiled at him, “I should be finished in about 20 minutes, want to wait for me?”

“No problem,” he stood up in one fluid movement, and keeping to the corner playing with his phone, letting Molly go about her business. They walked out of Bart’s about an hour later, Molly bundled up against the cold in a thick coat, her pink hat with the cat ears, and the colorful scarf that hung down to her knees. Sherlock had his face buried in his phone, typing furtively with those long fingers but glanced up at her with a smile when she wound her arm through his. She enjoyed the sensation of him so near her, enjoying the warmth that permeated through the layers of clothes and warmed her inside and out, feeling the muscles in his forearm move and shift with his movement.

They walked in silence to the main thoroughfare to catch a cab back to Baker Street, their home, with Sherlock barely looking away from his phone. Molly became distracted, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her vision was wonky, everything in sharp focus, the colors too bright even in the darkness of the night. Frowning, wondering if she should tack on her vision problems to her impending illness.

When they passed by a dark alley she stopped in her tracks, blinking at the darkness that extended between the two brick buildings. “Sherlock,” she whispered, squeezing his arm to get his attention as her eyes traced the massive shape of a man standing in the darkness.

“Hmm?” he murmured, having paused out of reflex but without once looking up from his phone.

“Do—do you see that m—man, standing right there?” she stammered, blinking rapidly at the darkness.

“What man?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up and squinting those mercurial eyes to where her gaze was focused.

“He’s gone,” she breathed.

“Molly,” he said her name in that familiar, admonishing tone, “what are you talking about? What man? It’s just a dark, empty alley.”

“There was something _right_ there,” she insisted, “and as soon as you looked up, he was _gone_ ,” her voice was quivering, tears stinging her eyes as she tugged on his arm, “Sherlock, I’m not joking!”

Sherlock barely contained the urge to roll his eyes as he disengaged from her arms, opening the flashlight app on his phone and swung it around the alley, his light footsteps echoing on the pavement as he walked halfway into the dank and dingy space, shining the sliver of light into every corner. “Molly, there’s nobody here,” he told her, turning to her with a raised brow.

“There _was_ ,” she covered her eyes with her hands, wanting to cry as a mixture of frustration and terror gripped her. Either she was losing her mind, had a tumor that was affecting her sense of reality, or she had seen a rather large man in the darkness of the alley, who had disappeared the second Sherlock had looked up.

Unsettled and terrified, she let Sherlock usher her into a taxi he hailed, and tried to ignore the concerned looks he kept shooting her.


	2. Moon in the Gutter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thanks for reading! I had to change the rating to explicit, anticipating some fun down the line, I hope. Just a heads up for you lovely readers!   
> Enjoy!  
> xx

Laying across Sherlock’s body, Molly couldn’t think of anywhere else she would rather be in that moment. Her cheek was pressed against Sherlock’s bare chest, his heart thudding steadily against her ear as he ran his hand down her naked back, drawing absent patterns against her skin as he held her other hand in his, pressed against his chest. “Better?” he murmured, turning his head to kiss her forehead, the simple gold wedding band he wore catching the light.

She made a humming sound, cuddling closer to him, “much,” Molly assured him, and closed her eyes to enjoy the sounds of their quiet apartment, counting his heartbeats, absorbing the soft whistling sound of his steady breathing, and the pitter patter of the rain outside creating a cocoon of serenity around them.

Her husband had been clearly worried about her when they’d gotten home, walking around her as if she were a ticking time-bomb, unsure of what to do for her. She’d tried to seem calm and collected for Sherlock’s sake, knowing he was still adjusting to being a husband and helpmate.

But she hadn’t been able to let go of the eeriness of that…figure, that specter, that dark vision hidden in the alley, the sound of the heavy footsteps she _knew_ she’d heard…So Sherlock had pulled her in his arms after having locked the doors so they weren’t rudely interrupted by the throng of people that usually paraded through their flat.

And _oh_ , Sherlock had distracted her thoroughly, drawing her completely away from her thoughts as he had filled her in every imaginable way. He’d stretched her out on the couch first, slowly peeling away every layer of clothing, kneeling beside her and drawing slow, delicious orgasms from her body with his talented musicians fingers, absorbing her sighs and moans with his kisses. When it had become too much for him, he had quickly stripped and climbed on top of her, letting her wrap her arms and legs around him as he entered her, his breath warm in her ear as he thrust himself harder and harder inside her.

Something had shifted inside Molly when he’d pulled his head back just enough so that he was looking down at her, his hips drilling into the couch in that wild, uninhibited, bruising way that had become so familiar to her. She’d looked up into his eyes, the new defect in her vision picking up the array of colors there, seeing with heartbreaking clarity the way the blues and greens melded with flecks of gold and amber. Winding her hand from his back, across his shoulders and down to his chest, it had been as if for the first time, she had noticed how elegant his throat was, how long and slim….with that alabaster skin, that scattered cluster of freckles just over his jugular.

How had she never tasted those delicious freckles before?

Molly had moaned his name, her hands cupping his throat as she’d licked his Adam’s apple, sucking the skin over his thick vein until he’d come inside her with a deep, erotic groan.

As she held him inside her, helping him ride the wave of pleasure that washed through his body, a singular word had been floating through her mind.

_Mine_.

And that’s how they’d ended up on the couch, naked and spent. She was acutely aware of his body, registering every movement of muscle, every quiver and thump of his beating heart. If she listened closely, she was convinced she’d hear his blood thrumming through his veins.

She lifted her head to look at him with a smile. _Her husband._

The thought alone was enough to fill her mind with joy, pushing out all dark specters and impending madness.

Sherlock’s phone going off was like a bomb in the serenity of their apartment, and they both groaned as the incessant buzzing continued. His trousers were in a heap on the ground, and the phone was making a racket on the hardwood. Cursing softly, she climbed off her husband, wrapping the throw on the couch around her body as Sherlock grabbed his phone. She looked out of the window as she heard Sherlock greet Mycroft with the subtle anger of a poked bear, watching the street below as people scrambled out of the rain that seemed to be falling harder by the drop.

At first, she thought she was seeing things again, attributing it to the falling rain and the reflection of the headlights of oncoming traffic. She blinked several times, frowning against the confusing mixture of glittering streetlights and rain. Molly felt disoriented, suddenly unsure of the difference between reality and this horrendous nightmare that had pulled her from the warmth of Sherlock’s affection.

But she really was seeing him.

It.

_Them_.

There were two now.

Huge shadows standing behind the cable box across the street, huddled together out of the light of the streetlamps, their heads turned as if they were staring directly into the windows of the apartment.

Molly must have made some sort of sound because Sherlock came towards her, taking the room in long strides to stand beside her, “what is it?” he followed her gaze as she put a hand on her back, and she heard her husband’s breath catch. This time, the dark figures didn’t move when Sherlock looked down at them.

“Mycroft, send your men here, _now_ ,” his tone was clipped as he looked down at the two men, barking out orders in rapid succession, “stay here. Whatever you do, don’t leave. Call Lestrade.” Before she could stop him, Sherlock was out of the apartment, covering his nakedness with the Belstaff as he took the steps down two at a time.

She watched in daze as the two figures melted into the darkness of the night, disappearing completely by the time Sherlock made his way to where he’d spotted them. In other circumstances, she would have laughed at Sherlock standing naked in the middle of the street with bare feet, with only his coat covering him.

But she was too terrified, lost in the blurred lines between reality and nightmare.


	3. Deep in the Woods

            Molly stayed in their bedroom as Lestrade arrived with police and Mycroft with his men from the MOD. She curled up in her and Sherlock’s bed, a tight little ball of worry under a quilt, having hastily gotten dressed in t-shirt and sweatpants after Sherlock had come back upstairs. He hadn’t even bothered to put on clothes, just wrapped the Belstaff tighter around him when everyone had started arriving, his words tight and clipped.

            She swiped at the tears that refused to stop falling, unable to decide whether it was a good thing to know that the specters she’d been seeing were real and not a hallucination from some unnamed, untreated disease. There was a certain comfort in madness, knowing that terrifying visions like the two huge, black shapes across the street were just a bursting vein in her brain. The assurance that such sights didn’t exist in the real world a comfort she didn’t know she’d wanted to latch on to.

            The door of the bedroom opened and Molly knew Sherlock had practically kicked it open so that she wouldn’t have to worry about guessing who was on the other side. He walked in silently, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed opposite her, ruffling his hair in that frustrated manner, gripping it in tight fists as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. From the silence she heard down the hall, it was obvious that everyone had left.

            “The police are going to be doing regular rounds through the neighborhood, and Mycroft’s assigned a security detail for you,” he told her after a few moments of silence, “but I want you to take the next week off from work, or however long it takes for me to figure out who those men were.”

            “No.”

            “Yes.”

            “No, Sherlock.”

            “ _Yes_ , Molly,” he looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes practically glowing with anger. But she knew him well enough by now, knew that he was using the anger to hide the worry he must have been feeling.

            “No, Sherlock,” she repeated, her voice thick with tears but strong with conviction, “I will not be a prisoner in my home just because two—two” her hands were having ineffectively in front of her, trying to articulate her thoughts, “ _shadows_ have decided to follow me around.”

            “Those shadows are more likely assassins,” he grit out, his back still towards her, “if you think I’m going to let you prance around London with them following you, you clearly are less observant than I had previously thought. Which is saying something.”

            She narrowed her eyes at his back, the acerbic tone of his words cutting her deep but she refused to acknowledge the wound, “ _letting_ me? Who do you think you are?” she practically yelled, rising up on her knees on the bed, the tears that slipped down her cheeks out of anger now at her husband. How _dare_ he use those words, that tone? She had married him with the understanding that he would have to learn how to live with their relationship with her, but this was absurd.

            Sherlock stood up, the anger in his eyes frightening and mirroring her own, “I’m your _husband_ ,” he answered, his booming voice reverberating through the apartment, “I have been for the past eight bloody months! Cast your mind back, you were there. There were lots of people and meaningless vows were made in front of an altar for an invisible, magical being with all our family and supposed friends there with fake smiles pasted on their faces when all they wanted to do was get to the free bar and gorge themselves on free food while they pretended to care about us.”

            Molly clutched her chest, her heart constricting painfully at his words, her world collapsing. “Meaningless vows,” she whispered and saw realization dawning on his fine features, “that’s what they were to you? Meaningless vows?” she asked, a mirthless laugh leaving her lips as she swiped angrily at the tears that wouldn’t stop falling in a steady stream.

            He took a step towards her, “Molly,” he said her name on a sigh, holding his hand out to her and she could see his heartrate picking up, “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean that they were meaningless in the religious context not between you and me,” Sherlock cursed in frustration, his hands on his hips as he turned in a circle, “how did we wind up like this? Not an hour ago we were banging a dent in Mrs. Hudson wall with the sofa and now I’m having to explain to you what I meant when I said our marriage vows were meaningless.”

            On any other day, in any other time and circumstance, Molly would have smiled at her husband and accepted his version of an apology, chalking it up to the traumas he had suffered. She had been as understanding of him as humanly possible, often throwing herself under the bus just to protect him from _her_ hurt feelings. But today had been a long day. The month had been too long, in fact. The exhaustion that continued to plague her, the heartbreak that she was currently feeling expounded by the fact that her wonky vision was making him glow slightly in the dim light of their bedroom.

            “I need some air,” she told him, rising up in one fluid movement.

            She was just about to reach the door, pulling a jumper over hear her head when he caught her wrist, his long fingers holding her tightly but not hurting her, “you can’t go out there, Molly. Do you remember what you just saw?”

            “No, because apparently I’m not as observant as you,” she looked steadily into his eyes, “let me go, Sherlock.”

            “Molly,” his breath exploded out of his chest as he used her wrist to tug her closer to him, letting his coat fall open to expose the delicious expanse of his chest, and she saw the furtive beating of his heart and the unmissable thrum of the blood rushing through his veins. His pupils were dilated, almost completely obscuring the mercurial lightness of his eyes. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly. And there was the slightest tremor in the fingers he restrained her wrist with.

            He was afraid.

            “I may be an obnoxious, overbearing, tyrannical arsehole of a husband but that doesn’t change the fact that there is someone, or someone’s, out there who were watching our apartment. I think that shadow you see outside Bart’s must’ve been them as well,” his voice was low, and she recognized the tactic he used to make her lean towards him as he spoke fast, “be angry with me all you want darling, but I will not let you go out there when I still don’t know who was watching you. Be angry with me, but hear the logic behind my ignorant words.”

            She looked into her husband’s eyes as he held her fist against his chest, and she could feel his beating heart, the heat of his skin on her hand. Molly took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Fine,” she murmured and wrapped her arms around his waist, her head nestling on his chest, “I’m still angry with you,” she told him.

            “I know, and I deserve it” he told her, wrapping his arms tightly around her, stroking her back with those broad palms. They held onto each other for several silent minutes, a quiet communion that didn’t require the burden of words when hearts were connected, souls danced together. After a while, he took in a deep breath and she felt him bury his lips against her forehead, “Molly,” he murmured, “if anything ever happens to you…”

            She tightened her arms around his waist as his words died away, emotions clogging whatever he had been about to tell her. Molly squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that whoever was following her would be dealt with the combined power of her brother in law, Lestrade, and Sherlock. She had no doubt that the shadows would be found and be forced to answer for their actions. But Molly’s still had the other threat looming over her head, the reality that there was something wrong with her body.

            “I love you Sherlock,” she told him, drawing her head away from his chest just far enough to kiss him slowly, enjoying the way he released his breath, kissing her back with hunger bordering on obsession. If she was sick, if there was something physically wrong with her to the point that it was going to take her away from him, Molly could only pray that her husband survived it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying this as much as I enjoy writing it for y'all! :)


	4. Carry Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MILD Season 4 spoilers!

            The next few days passed by with much incident, but Molly wasn’t sure if she would take it as any positive sign.

            She had relented and taken several personal days from the hospital, explaining to Mike Stamford that something had come up. Being his favorite and best pathologist on staff, coupled with the fact that she never took sick days, Mike had happily allowed her the time off. So, she mostly puttered around her and Sherlock’s flat, bored out of her wits, unable to leave the apartment unless she was accompanied by Sherlock. He didn’t trust her even with John Watson, and she’d thought his lack of confidence in the MOD men was crazed.         

            “You need to learn to relax Molly,” Sherlock admonished her on the second day, watching her clean the kitchen with vigor usually reserved for more fun activities. She had spent the day before rearranging their bookshelves, finally incorporating her own collection into his, filling the new bookcase they’d bought after she’d moved in over a year ago. “You stress yourself out needlessly.”

            She looked at him over her shoulder with a raised brow, “what was it you told me once? ‘Stress can ruin everyday of your life, dying can only ruin one’.”

            He raised a brow, wearing black slacks and a dark blue shirt under his tan housecoat, his hair still wet from his shower, “when did I tell you that?”

            Molly turned to face him, “you don’t remember?” when he shook his head in answer, she rolled her eyes, “of course you don’t. You were high out of your gourd. It was in the ambulance, after you told me about your plan to bring down Culverton Smith, and help John.”

            “Ah!” he nodded, avoiding her gaze now, “that,” he cleared his throat, “day.”

            “Yeah, that day,” she wrapped her arms around herself, slowly walking towards him until she stood chest to chest with him, “when I spent the entire ambulance ride in your lap crying because I was convinced you were going to die.”

            He made a humming sound, kissing the tip of her nose, “now _that_ part, I remember,” he pressed his forehead against hers, “you were so upset, my little Molly. No faith in John.”

            Molly closed her eyes, running her hands up his chest to cup his neck, tracing the vein that ran down his throat to his heart, rubbing her thumb over it. “To be fair, if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t thought to show him the video Mary left behind…you’d be dead. And he did beat you to a bloody pulp.”

            “He was angry with me. Plus, I had a back-up plan,” he murmured, moving his body closer to hers, holding onto her hips.

            “I’m sure,” she laughed, placing little kisses along his throat, tasting his Adam’s apple and knowing it was a moot point to explain to him why she hadn’t quite forgiven John Watson for Sherlock’s condition the following several days, “the burst vein in your eye really was a testament to your brilliant plan.”

            “I wouldn’t have let him kill me,” Sherlock told her, “well, I don’t think I would have. And anyway, why would I let myself be killed when you and I had just started dating?”

            “I always wondered that myself,” she smiled against his skin, dipping her tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat.

            But they’d been interrupted before Molly could push him down into his leather armchair, strip him and run her fingers through his wet hair. Whatever else was happening, Molly was slightly astonished at her sex drive. She was never able to keep her hands off Sherlock before, but it had become ridiculous lately. She’d snuck in to the bathroom while he showered and joined him under the pretense that he needed help washing his unruly curly hair. Earlier that morning, she had woken him up with lazy kisses and caresses which eventually ended with Molly on her hands and knees with Sherlock behind her. She hadn’t been able to keep herself away from her during breakfast either, putting the honey he’d been drizzling over his toast to good use She thought she would have been sore by now, since they’d been going at it like rabbits for most the past three weeks but apparently, it just made her hungrier for him.

Mrs. Hudson had waltzed in with a tray of tea with her customary “hoo-hoo”, followed by John who was on his lunch break, wanting to check in to see how Molly was doing. As her husband and his best friend had become embroiled in one of their typical arguments, Molly had gone back to scrubbing the kitchen within an inch of its life.

            “What’s wrong?” John asked when he noticed she was rubbing her eyes, standing by the open window by the pantry, where she’d been throwing out open, stale bags of crisps and cookies.

             “Oh, nothing, I’m fine,” she answered, rubbing her stinging, watering eyes, “I think I’m getting a migraine or something,” she murmured, moving away from the open window. Sherlock had overheard the conversation and walked into the kitchen with a frown, “the light just fried my eye sockets.”

            Sherlock wrapped an arm around her shoulders, maneuvering her to the sitting room. “Maybe it’s best if you go to hospital, Molly,” John murmured, following the couple, quickly closing the curtains to keep the light out.

            “I’m fine,” she murmured as Sherlock carefully lowered her into her corner of the couch, directly beneath the smiley face, “it’ll pass.”

            But the look on Sherlock’s face was somewhere between marrow deep concern and utter terror. Looking into those eyes that were a slightly darker blue today, taking on the hue of his shirt, she knew he’d noticed the signs. Noticed how tired she was, how incessantly hungry, how sensitive to natural light…She had tried to keep the secret, had tried not to show those symptoms to the unknown disease that was threatening to separate them, and hoped that he was too close to this one to be able to make the connections.

            But this was Sherlock Holmes, and not even marriage blinded him from the obvious.

            “Let’s go to the doctor,” he said in a soft voice and she nodded, wordlessly reaching for him, hugging him tightly.

  

* * *

           

            Consciousness returned to Molly in slow, sporadic waves, as if her synaptic nerves were trying to learn how to function all over again, finding their way back. First she felt the tingle of life in her extremities, then the warmth of her skin, her senses returning to her in spurts, finally her thoughts shifted from mindlessness to full consciousness. Her eyes flipped open and she noticed the overhead lights, the sterile white tiles of a hospital ceiling.

            “Sherlock?” her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. She tried to lift her head but groaned, letting it fall back.

            “Take it easy,” an unfamiliar male voice told her from somewhere to her right, “chill out for a few minutes, Molly.”

            “We didn’t want to conk you out, but that husband of yours,” a second decidedly male voice added, “whooo! He’s somethin’ else!”

            Molly tried to sit up again, terror washing through her and giving her strength to actually sit up this time. She was in an examination room, sterile and white, smelling of disinfectant that plagued every doctor’s office, complete with the little sink with a cabinet next to a hazard bin.

She gasped when she saw the two men that had been talking. They were _huge_ , beyond comprehension, clad all in black. One of them was sitting on a dainty stool that seemed to be groaning from his weight, with straight black hair falling to his waist from a widow’s peak, his eyes hidden behind dark wraparound glasses. The other man was on his feet, leaning against the wall with massive arms crossed in front of his chest with a handsome, stern face.

            Molly had a feeling their leather jackets and the other bulges in their clothes weren’t from hiding kittens. “Where’s Sherlock? What have you done with him? Who are you?” she demanded, ready to fight her way to her husband, even though the men in front of her were taller than her by at least a foot and three hundred pounds.

            “He’s fine,” the one with the long black hair told her, his English tinted with something that sounded vaguely Russian, “he’s with our brothers in the other room, taking a nap.”

            “Let me go to him, or I swear to God,” she tried to sound as threatening as she could, standing up and wobbling slightly but managed not to fall. She walked to the one standing by the door, barely aware of the fact that she was barefoot. Pulling herself up to her full height, she narrowed her eyes at the second man with as much menace as she could muster.

            “What will you do?” the other man asked with a low, unsettling laugh, “fight us?”

            She looked at him, shivering slightly as she felt his hidden eyes tracking her movement, “if I have to,” she told him, swallowing her hard.


	5. Anthrocene

           “Molly Holmes-Hooper, I can _smell_ your fear from here,” the one with the long hair laughed, a sound that was dark, coming out of the abyss, “it smells like burnt plastic in my nostrils, it tingles” he told her.

            What the _hell_ do you say to that? Molly tried to stop the shiver that threatened her, rolling her shoulders as she ignored the terror. Worry for Sherlock’s safety overcame any fear she had of these two massive, leather clad men. “That’s all well and good,” she swallowed, “congratulations on your incredible olfactory abilities. But I’m married to a man who can tell the difference between 453 types of ash, who can spot a lawyer by her posture and an airline pilot by her left thumb. Now, where is he? Where is Sherlock?” she asked again. 

            Molly expected them to react violently to her insolence. She clenched every muscle in her body, anticipating a blow that never came. Instead, the two men exchanged looks and began laughing, making Molly frown as she looked between them. “No DNA test required,” the one with the short hair finally spoke, his friendly tone making her instantly suspicion of him, “you’re definitely Cyrus’s daughter.”

            At the mention of her father’s name, she blinked up at him, completely caught off guard, “excuse me? How do you know my father?”

            “So many questions, Dr. Hooper,” the one with the long hair stretched his legs in front of her, his thighs as thick as her torso, “which would you like us to answer first?”

            “Sherlock,” she said immediately, “where’s Sherlock? I want to know he’s safe.”

            “We told you, he’s fine, he’s with our brothers in the room next door,” the man with the short hair told her. He reminded her of John Watson somehow, the way he stood and carried himself, the formality in his posture, the crewcut. He was a soldier, had to be.

            She wondered what government had hired them to hunt Sherlock down, if they were assassins, guns for hire, mercenaries. She was too unimportant to the world for hired guns to be after her, and she hated the idea that she was going to be used as leverage against her husband. God, she knew he had always feared his enemies would use her against him, exactly like this. She suddenly felt incredibly alone in the world, her thumb nervously rubbing her wedding band as she sent silent apologies to her husband for having put him in this situation. She was a weakness that he couldn’t afford and yet, he had taken that risk and was paying for it now.

            But then, why had they mentioned her father?

            Confusing thoughts chased each other through her mind, even as she told herself to remain calm, to do as Sherlock would and take stock of the situation before letting panic and fear overrule her. “How do you know my father?” she asked them, forcing her thoughts back on track.

            “Cyrus,” the soldier’s smile was honest, sentimental, “he was my best friend. One of the best males I’ve ever known.”

            “True that,” the other nodded solemnly, “one of a kind.”

            She frowned. The two men couldn’t have been more than 30 years old, younger than Molly. Her father, if he had lived would’ve been 65 by now but he had passed away when she was only 16. “How did you know him?” she repeated, looking from one to the other.

            “He was our brother,” the one with the long hair stood up and Molly had to tilt her neck back to look at him. He was probably close to 7 feet tall and heavily muscled beneath all that black leather.

            “Your _brother_?” Molly repeated with a disbelieving laugh, “you’re my uncles?” realization dawned on her in a rush, “oh my God, you’re _mafia_!”

            From somewhere outside the room they were in, suddenly sounds of grunts, male voices and banging doors exploded, echoing through the hallway. “MOLLY!” Sherlock’s voice reverberated through wherever they were, followed by thuds and loud grunts.

            She threw herself at the door, quicker than the two giant men in the room with her and threw it open, yelling Sherlock’s name as adrenaline rushed through her entire being. Her bare feet slipped on the linoleum as she got to the hallway, seeing Sherlock in the middle of two men wearing the same leather outfit and as huge as the two that had been in the room with her. He was holding his own against them, ducking and dodging, punching and hitting them with his usual grace. “Sherlock!” she yelled, a sob exploding out of her chest as she saw one of the men land a hard uppercut on his jaw, bringing him to his knees.

            “Enough!” the one with the long hair yelled, easily keeping Molly from running into the foray, subduing her with an arm around her waist, practically picking her up off the ground.

            “You _fucking_ prick, let me go!” she yelled, seeing the blood that was pooling on the floor where Sherlock remained on all fours, his head ducked. She kicked hard, straining against the mountain that held her, “I said let me _go_!”

            The man with the long hair finally listened and Molly scrambled to Sherlock, cupping his face in her palms as she fell to her knees in front of him, lifting his face to hers and looked into his eyes, “are you alright?” she asked, using her shirtsleeve to blot the blood from his split lip. He must’ve cut the inside of his mouth on his teeth as well, a bruise already forming around his right side of his face.           

            Sherlock’s eyes swept over her, quickly taking in every detail of her face and body as if assuring himself that she was in one piece. He lifted his eyes away from her, focusing on the man behind her, “whatever you want, I’ll do it for you,” he asked in an emotionless voice, “let Molly go.”

            “Dude,” one of them said, sounding utterly exasperated, “aren’t you supposed to be this super smart detective guy? It’s not you we want, it’s Dr. Hooper. But your ass is like permanently attached to her so we had to nab you too”

            But the man with the long hair shot the speaker a dark look, filled with warning and the speaker instantly fell silent. “You have nothing to fear from us,” the long-haired man said, standing in a very commanding way, his feet planted apart, confidence rolling out of him in waves of power, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “This entire thing would have been much less dramatic if you two had come in peace.”

            Molly narrowed her eyes at him, feeling rather protective of Sherlock as she tried to shield his body from the long-haired man with her body, as if she could protect him from 300 pounds of muscle. “You kidnapped us! You drugged us to bring us here!”

            The long-haired man shook his head silently, “we tried to have a civilized conversation with you when you were leaving the hospital earlier but your husband decided to pull out his karate moves,” Molly had the distinct sense that he was rolling his eyes behind the black lenses of his glasses, “we had to resort to some more evasive tactics to get you here.”

            “Why?” Molly gritted her teeth, “what could you possibly want from me?”

            “You’re going to die, Molly, unless you let us help you,” he told her with such frankness, such bluntness.

            It took her breath away.

“What are you talking about? The CAT scans and the MRI’s, they all showed that I’m healthy and that everything’s normal.”

            “For a human that doesn’t know what they’re looking for, you’re absolutely healthy,” he told her, walking towards them in slow, measured steps. God, he was huge and terrifying, a walking mountain dripping in black with steel toed boots and a fist sized red ruby ring on his left hand.

            _Definitely mafia_.

            “For a human?” Sherlock repeated, the blood from his cut lip finally stopping as he narrowed his eyes at the giant behind her.

            “Yes,” he long-haired man answered, coming to stand directly in front of Molly, giving her that sense that he was watching her rather intently from behind the glasses.

            “Vasili, maybe this isn’t a great place to tell her,” the soldier stepped forward, addressing the man with long hair.

            The long-haired man, Vasili apparently, turned to look at the soldier, “where would you suggest then? Their dingy apartment? The main house? The Sanctum?”

            “No, I mean not in the hallway like this,” the soldier answered with practiced patience, “Cyrus wouldn’t have wanted it this way for her.”

            “If Cyrus were here, we wouldn’t be,” Vasili grit out, then turned back to Sherlock and Molly with a deadly expression, “alright let’s go.”

            ------------

            Sherlock and Molly were escorted into a room that looked like a doctor’s office, complete with a cluttered desk, a white board, shelves overflowing with medical textbooks, and two ratty looking chairs in front of the desk. Sherlock had taken possession of his wife’s hand as they’d been walked down the hallway, his eyes scanning their surroundings, looking for a way out. To at least get Molly to safety. But wherever they were, was sealed as tight as Fort Knox, and it didn’t help that their captives were immense. As good as Sherlock was with hand-to-hand and close quarters combat, sometimes being literally outweighed by your opponent was enough to tip the scales.

            There was also the fact that the men were each carrying an arsenal beneath their black leather jackets, probably enough to arm a small country, and Sherlock wasn’t carrying anything. If he decided to take them on, he wasn’t sure that these goons wouldn’t pull out their weapons, and flying bullets in close quarters with his wife wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

            Sherlock grew frustrated as he became unable to meld together his deductions into a reasonable explanation. Everything that he was able to understand didn’t make any sense, the web information being woven around him was too immense for him to comprehend, too baroque.

            He glanced at Molly as she dropped into one of the chairs. She looked pale, her skin seeming to be stretched tight over her bones, her eyes blood shoot but at least they hadn’t harmed her. She was terrified but trying to keep herself from showing it, squeezing his fingers with all her strength.

            None of this made sense.

            These men moved like special operations or military unit but he hadn’t seen any indication of formality in the way they addressed each other. It was clear that “Vasili” was the leader but there was no rank, no military dictated respect in their tones as they addressed him or each other. The fact that they referred to each other as brother made him think they were some sort of mafia, a crime syndicate similar to the Cosa Nostra. But he would have known about it already, a band of giants in black leather with American accents.

            What did they want with Molly?

            He forced himself to divorce from the emotions that threatened to cloud his judgement, finding an empty room in his mind palace to look up his worries, barricading the door before he walked to the suite in his mind that he had created for his exquisite wife. He closed those doors too, forcing himself to regard Molly as someone who happened to be in the situation with him, not his wife. Not his love.

Just, someone.

            Vasili entered the room, his hand in front of him, feeling the walls and grunting as he walked into the sharp corner of desk. The room shrank as the five men entered it, Vasili sitting in front of them at the table, the man with the military cut (Cad, he’d heard the others call him) stood just behind Vasili, to his right, marking himself as Vasili’s second-in-command. Sherlock looked behind him, refusing to sit down or separate himself from Molly even by a few feet, the two giants at the door glowering at him, the blonde flexing the knuckles he’d busted against Sherlock’s jaw. So Sherlock stood next to Molly, feet planted firmly on the ground, his hand on his wife’s shoulder. In all his years of doing “legwork” for Mycroft and throwing himself into whatever trouble he could get his hands on, Sherlock had never felt so intimidated or small.

            Even Dzundza seemed small and manageable in comparison.

            “Well?” Molly demanded, breath exploding out of her as if she’d been holding it, waiting for them to start talking, “you said I’m going die.”

            “We’re not going to let you,” Vasili told her, leaning back in his chair, his hands gripping the arm rests and making the office chair creak, “Molly—”

            Sherlock interrupted, “you will refer to her as either Mrs. Holmes-Hooper or Dr. Hooper.”

            The man’s hidden eyes bored into Sherlocks, his slashing brows disappearing behind the wraparound glasses, menace rolling off the man in waves. But clearly, there was a medical necessity for those glasses and Sherlock had gotten the distinct impression that Vasili was blind. Which was absurd, because the man moved with grace despite the small signs Sherlock had seen to the contrary. “ _Molly_ ,” Vasili continued, “you’ve been tired lately, right? Exhausted but no matter how much you sleep, you still can’t cope. You’re hungry all the time and you keep eating but you haven’t gained any weight.”

            “How…how do you know that?” Molly stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

            “Your eyes are too sensitive, especially during the day. Your vision’s changed too, you’re seeing and feeling things differently,” Vasili continued, “you’re looking at raw meat and wondering what it tastes like. And your teeth, the upper ones in the front, have been sore. Your joints ache all the time, your skin feels tight and getting tighter by the day.”

            Molly’s chest was rising and falling rapidly with her breath, her mouth falling open as the man continued speaking.

            “You’ve felt this impending sense of doom, more than usual. You feel like you don’t belong, and the feelings are getting stronger by the day,” Vasili smiled tightly, “and your sex drive has gone into overdrive lightly, you’ve probably become obsessed with your husband’s neck.”

            “What the _hell_ is going on?” she demanded, her voice weak and Sherlock watched as she shrank in her chair. He had caught most of those symptoms just being around her, unable to understand how she could go from falling asleep on her feet, perpetually yawning, to the manic energy he felt when they made love, demanding more and more of his body with each passing day. Both of them had interpreted the signs a symptom of a great, underlying illness. Signs of a brain tumor, an aneurism.

            “Your father was one of us,” Vasili told her, “he was of the princes of our race, in fact. The equivalent of a duke in your vernacular.”

            Molly made a squeaking sound, her entire body quivering beneath his hand.

            “You’ve known it too, haven’t you,” the man’s voice was soft now as he leaned towards Molly, tilting his head and Sherlock resisted the animalistic instinct to bash the man’s head in for using such a familiar tone with his wife. “You’ve always had a sense of it, an understanding that you tried to bury inside you, ignoring your instincts,” the man grinned, revealing a pair of incisors that were abnormally long and sharp. “You know what we are,” he hissed.

            Sherlock had the distinct impression of that terrible vampire movie one of John’s ex-girlfriends had forced them to watch, the sparkling, glittering actor trying to turn himself into a tragic lover, whispering in the girl’s ear, “say it, out loud.”

            He burst out laughing, breaking the tension in the room suddenly. All eyes turned on him, including Molly’s brown ones, tears brimming, “what is this? A _joke_? Oooh I bet Mycroft’s behind this, bit of payback for the thing with the clowns, and the girl vomiting pea soup last week. Vampires?” he laughed again, “very well done! The whole kidnapping thing, getting Molly to act so tired all the time, getting us to the hospital. Tell my brother that this was brilliant but using Molly’s health was a bit of a low blow,” he grabbed her elbow, lifting her off her feet, “we’re going home now. I’ll let brother dear know you all were fantastic. Where did he find you all?”

            Molly was listless and numb, leaning heavily against Sherlock as if she couldn’t hold herself up. So he went along with it, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, walking her out of the door, missing the shrug of massive, leather covered shoulders as the rest of the men looked at Vasili for guidance. “Which ways out?” Sherlock called but then chose to go right because there were more doors that way, less doors usually meant they were at the end of a hallway. He looked down at his wife who had managed to wrap her arm around his waist, her face was still drown, pale. “You can stop now Molly,” he murmured, ignoring the desperation in his tone, “the joke’s over.”

“It’s not a joke, Sherlock Holmes,” Vasili appeared out of thin air, on the opposite end of the hallway, directly blocking their path. Disoriented, Sherlock looked behind him and saw the office they’d just walked out of, the door still open and the gigantic blonde leaning casually next to it. Sherlock mentally traced the path the man must have taken but there was no way. He hadn’t noticed any indication of a hallway hidden behind them, and even if there was a secret passageway the man could have used, he wouldn’t have appeared on the other end of the hallway so fast. Sherlock would have heard his footsteps; those boots were loud.

            Vasili bared his fangs, opening his arms wide, “Molly will die, unless you let us help her.”

            “You said that,” Sherlock frowned at the man in front of him, hearing the blaring sirens that were suddenly exploding in his mind palace, tightening his grip on his Molly.

 

 


	6. Supernaturally

Molly huddled into herself as she listened to Vasili, and although she heard every word he spoke, she hardly understood him. She was having an out of body experience, seeing herself sitting there, surrounded by those huge men, clutching Sherlock’s hand tightly in his as Vasili spoke in a confident voice.

“Your mother was human,” he told her, “it’s rare for one of our species to mate with a human and reproduce, but it does happen. When you were born, Cyrus decided to give you as much normalcy as possible, in case you didn’t inherit the genes to turn.”

“You mean,” she cleared her throat, Vasili waiting patiently for her to finish her sentence, “you mean the whole turning thing isn’t a biting…thing?”

“No,” one of the…men behind her answered, the one with the goatee and baseball cap that scared the hell out of her. More than the others. “That’s just human bullshit story they invented to cope. In real life, you’re not a vamp unless you hit the genetic lottery.”

“Our species is a more advanced version of human,” Vasili told her, “we’re faster, smarter, harder to kill. We’re just better.”

Sherlock spoke up for the first time since Vasili ha stopped them in the hallway, and the fact that he was as unsettled by all of this as she was frightened her to death. “At what?” he asked in that deep baritone.

“Everything,” was the answer, “the change hits us anywhere between 25 and 35 years of age, depending on how much human you have in you.”

“What’s that mean?” Molly asked in a small voice, feeling Sherlock squeeze her hand in support.

“I’m pure blood,” Vasili answered, “I have very little human DNA and so I changed when I was 25 years old.”

That would explain why he looked 25, Molly thought weakly, shrinking against Sherlock’s side.

This wasn’t happening.

_Was it?_

Probably that aneurism that was cooking up in her brain. It had more than likely burst by now, causing these hallucinations where her father had been vampire royalty, and she was a vampire about to change into one like some werewolf.

Molly listened as Vasili told her about their race, about how they had been forced to go into hiding centuries ago because they had been hunted down. He told her that he was the king of the race, that he had been friends with her father because Cyrus had been his closest advisor, his confidant. But Cyrus had loved his daughter’s mother, and when she’d died in childbirth, he had decided he would step aside to raise Molly. But vampires weren’t immune to cancer, and although it was rare in their species, it had taken his life. His last request was for Vasili to take care of Molly, if it ever became apparent that she was going to go through the change. That’s why he and Cad had been following her the past few days, wanting to see if she was close.

“What do you mean by change, exactly?” Sherlock asked and she felt grateful that he was at least able to speak, to ask the questions that she was unable to vocalize as she sat there, numb.

“Physiologically, she’s going to change. We have different cardiovascular and digestive systems, she’s probably going to change in appearance too. Females tend not to change that much but males go through immense change, imagine shooting from being a skinny four foot nothing to well,” he gestured to himself.

“Oh _God,_ ” Molly moaned, covering her face with her hands, “let’s say I believe all this _nonsense_ , God,” she couldn’t breathe, clutching at her chest, “I’m going to have to kill people for their _blood_?”

Vasili’s gaze was steady as Sherlock covered his own face with his hands, clearly barely clinging on to reality like her. “You could if you want to,” Vasili, the vampire king apparently, “but that’s all a part of the bullshit human myth started by Stoker. Human blood doesn’t sustain us. We feed from members of the opposite sex from our species, and we only need to feed about once a month. More frequently immediately after the transition. And we still eat.”

“Garlic bread’s still on the menu, if you’re wondering,” the blonde said from where he stood to her right, but he barely registered.

Vasili seemed to be anticipating her next few questions, “some of us can still go out in daylight, it usually depends on the human to vampire DNA ratio. We won’t know if you can go out in sunlight until after you transition. We’re not allergic to the Crucifix, one of our brothers is a devout Catholic actually. And show me one species that doesn’t die if you put a stake through their heart.”

“You keep referring to yourselves as brothers,” Sherlock murmured, his voice was quiet, contemplative, as if he actually believed this madness. She looked up at him and saw his eyes were focused on the apparent vampire king in front of them, his mouth a tight line, his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his chair, his hand still holding hers between his thighs.

“We’re blood brothers,” Cad answered, “we’re the king’s personal guard.”

“Soldiers,” Sherlock clarified.

“Warriors,” the blonde spoke up, his neon blue eyes focused on Sherlock with annoyance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, deliberately provoking the blonde, “tomato, tomatoe.”

Vasili continued talking, explaining to her how the change worked, how she would have to feed from a male of their species throughout the change, to ensure that she made it out alive. She listened with complete unattachment as Vasili explained that the change was closer than she thought, that he could smell it on her, and it would be happening in the next few days.

“Rhodes will be helping you with the transition,” Vasili told her, “by old custom, I cannot give you my blood as I am king and a bonded male, but Rhodes’ blood is as good as mine. He will see you through.”

Glancing up, she realized that Rhodes, her own personal blood bank, was the outrageously beautiful blonde with neon blue eyes, sex rolling out of him like palpable currants. He was taller and bigger than the rest of the men, with cheekbones almost as high as Sherlock’s, a square jaw, and sultry lips. But as obviously beautiful as Rhodes was, she’d been around Sherlock Holmes for far too long. There was no one in the world who could compare to the love of her life.

Molly didn’t realize they were alone until Sherlock touched her cheek gently, getting her attention. His eyes were searching hers, the muscle in his jaw clenching, moving his hand to cup her cheek as she looked around, astonished that she hadn’t realized they’d been left alone. Clearly, they weren’t captives, and they were expected to remain wherever they were based on the fact that she was about to turn into a vampire.

“This isn’t real, is it?” she asked her husband who shook his head, rubbing his thumb beneath her cheek, “it can’t be.”

He didn’t say anything, pressing his lips into a tight line as he looked in her eyes, letting her read his thoughts. “Molly,” he started, turning in his chair so he was facing her completely, spreading his legs and pulling her between his legs, “once you eliminate the impossible—”

“What remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” she whispered, finishing the motto that he lived by. “This cannot be the remaining truth Sherlock. These men are…are lying, this is some kind of sick joke!”

“To what ends?” he asked, his hands on her knees as he leaned forward, “if they are lying, what’s their purpose? If this is a joke, who’s in on it? Think.”

She grew frustrated, slapping his hands away and pressing her palms to her eyes, “I don’t know, Sherlock! I don’t know! All I know is I can’t be a v….my father wasn’t a v…I don’t care what their reasons are! This isn’t real, this _isn’t_ happening,” she insisted.

But he was relentless, “you think me a good judge of people, don’t you?” he didn’t wait for her to answer, correctly assuming that her answer would be in the affirmative, “you know I can tell when people are lying, that I can deduce the truth from whatever they tell me. Whether they’re lying or telling the truth. Yes?” she nodded, “these men, _males_ , aren’t lying. They are not showing any physical symptoms of lying, they don’t have a tell, their story is concise and the narrative is a plausible one.”

“Sherlock,” she moaned, “you can’t be serious,”

“Think of this in scientific terms,” he told her, “evolution. We’ve always looked back for the missing link but what if there’s an advanced species, a link forward that we’ve been ignoring. Evolution is based around the idea that human beings change and adapt to their situation, bodies shifting and giving the next generation better ability to cope with the physical world.”

“You’ve gone mad,” she murmured.

He laughed slightly, “maybe,” he nodded, “but even if a fraction of what they say is true, if your life _is_ in danger Molly, I can’t take that chance, can’t risk losing you.”

“This is madness,” was all she could say, “Sherlock, I can’t be a v….a va…a _vampire_! I mean, I’m just Molly. Plain, mousey, insignificant Molly Hooper who’s a pathologist at Bart’s.”

“The same Molly Hooper who helped me fool the entire world into thinking I was dead for two years? The same Molly Hooper who stood up to me when no one else would? The same Molly Hooper that dated and dumped the world’s greatest criminal mastermind? My Molly Hooper, who managed to take a junkie and turn him into a man worth marrying? Found something in an arrogant prick worth loving and salvaging? Who goes to head-to-head with my mother and comes out of a bout with a slice of chocolate cake?” he shook his head, “there’s never been anything insignificant or plain about you Molly.”

She turned her face into the broad palm that was cupping her cheek still, kissing his palm, “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, opening his arms and she crawled into his lap without being asked twice, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face against his throat, “Vasili said the change should start in the next 24 hours, why don’t we stay here? If the change is as severe as they are telling us, I don’t want you to be far from them when it starts. If it happens, it happens. If not, I swear to you I will find out who they really are.”

Molly tightened her arms around him, kissing side of his throat, making him jump when she gently bit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been loving writing this and dropping little bits of BC love along the way-- see if you can catch 'em! and thanks for reading!!!!


	7. As I Sat Sadly By Her Side

Molly and Sherlock were once again led down the hallway, this time entering a mansion through a secret passageway. The beauty of the foyer they had passed through had broken through even Molly’s haze, the massive, colorful mosaic displaying a blooming apple tree dripping with scarlet fruit making her gasp softly, almost reluctant to have to walk across it. Her husband was quiet, his eyes scanning, storing all the data that his magnificent brain gathered from a single sweep of his surroundings.

“We’ll be across the hall if you need us,” Vasili told them as they were shown to a suite of rooms on the second floor, “if you want anything to eat or drink, pick up that phone and dial five.”

“Room service. Convenient,” Sherlock muttered, sounding completely unimpressed with his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff, his collar turned up as he walked around the room, inspecting every single inch of it.

Vasili’s eyes brimmed with disapproval, but he shut the door behind him firmly, leaving the two of them alone. The room was beyond luxurious, with a huge, ornate canopy bed as the crown jewel with a small sitting room, surrounded by opulent furniture that reminded her of pictures of a Czar’s palace. Walking to the bathroom that was attached, she saw it was almost as big as their flat on Baker Street, with a clawfoot bathtub big enough for two, and a glass shower with thick, terry cloth robes and towels, a chase lounge tucked in the corner.

Walking back into the bedroom, rubbing her arms, she saw that Sherlock was still inspecting their new surroundings, probably making note of anything imaginable. “Well, at least we’re in England still,” he muttered, flipping through the TV channels on the mounted plasma screen, “judging by the station ID’s, somewhere near Hampstead.”

“That’s good to know,” she said absently, the hairs on her body standing on edge as if a small electric current wove its way through her core. She shook away the sensation, thinking it was just the adrenaline in her body from having been kidnapped, and listening to her husband try to tell her that vampires as evolved species of human was plausible had exhausted her.

Sherlock finally settled into one of the chairs, drumming his fingers rhythmically against the wood, his wedding ring accentuating every beat in the pattern as he watched her pacing. Molly eventually got tired, coming to sit in his lap, curling into a tight ball with her chin resting on her husband’s shoulder. Wordlessly he held her against him, freely giving her the comfort she sought without question, without a second thought. A far cry from the Sherlock she had first met, who had seen physical intimacy as nothing more than a white flag of surrender from the sentimental losing side, but he had slowly come to see the importance of connecting his mind with his body.

That wasn’t quite right, Molly thought as he stroked his hands down her back, his fingers trailing over her spine. He was tactile, using his hands to express thought and touching things to learn them better, physically expressing his thoughts. What he had learned after Sherrinford, after their marriage, was that he had to connect his motions through the same way, touching Molly and creating that link between what he felt for her and his need to have physical contact that was as simple as a hand on the shoulder.  

“I wish we were home,” she murmured, “watching _Parade’s End_ and pretending none of this is happening.”

“You and that bloody actor,” he teased softly, “what the hell’s his name? It’s so absurd I can never remember it.”

“Says the man named William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she laughed, loving him all the more for being able to make her laugh when all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry.

Losing herself in thoughts of Sherlock’s more real transformation, as opposed to the science fiction one she was supposedly going to go through soon, she’d fallen asleep. The seconds melting into minutes that stretched into hours as she rested against him, safe in the circle of his arms, her haven right there with a beating heart.

Molly’s peace was disturbed when another current of electricity touched her spine, making her shiver, trying not to gasp as she felt her nipples harden, sending fissures of sensation through her body. The warmth that spread through her was uncomfortable, making her restless as she launched herself out of the cocoon of his arms, pacing around the room, trying to rub the electricity out of her body.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, his eyes alarmed before momentarily dropping down to her chest where he could see her body’s involuntary reaction to whatever was happening poking through the thin material of her t-shirt.

She shrugged, “restless I supposed,” Molly filled her lungs with air, forcing her tumbling thoughts to slow down, and letting her breath out deliberately, focusing on what it felt like for it to leave her lungs, on the coolness of it as it left her.

“Molly,” his tone filled with the usual warning he used when she did something that either surprised him or displeased him. He blocked her path, standing in front of her and grabbing her shoulders to keep her from dodging him, “now is not the time to be brave, love. What’s wrong?”

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve been over the moon at the rarely used term of endearment from her stoic husband, but now, she just looked up at him with exhaustion, “I feel restless, like I’ve had too much coffee, too stimulated,” she told him as another wave of electricity crawled up her spine.

“Tell me how to help you,” he murmured, blinking rapidly as if trying to sort through the thoughts that were bombarding him.

Molly closed her eyes, gripping the lapels of Sherlock’s coat as she tried to breath through the flames that seemed to be licking her skin, making her eyes water, gasping audibly as another wave crashed through her, making her arch against her husband’s chest. The pleasure pain of the sensations assaulting her body made her weak, Sherlock the only thing that kept her from falling to the ground in a heap. His fingers were cool against her head skin as he touched her face, his eyes flaring, “Molly, you’re burning up!”

The third current was stronger, the mixture of sensation gripped her body. She pressed her face into the center of Sherlock’s chest and let out a scream against him as he held his arms loosely around her, holding her against him. She could hear his heart beating faster and faster, could hear the rapidness of the thoughts that chased each other through his mind palace, his breathing shallow and growing more panicked, and the delicious thrumming of the blood in his veins. 

The fourth wave made tears stream down her cheeks, crying out as Sherlock carried her to the bed in his arms, his eyes wild as he stroked her jaw, “I think—I think it’s starting,” he murmured.

When he made a move to leave her, she grabbed his wrist in a flash of movement his eyes couldn’t track, “don’t leave me,” she said in a voice wracked with pain, the strength in her fingers astonishing Sherlock.

He turned back to her, leaning down to stroke her hair away from her face, kissing her forehead, “I have to get Rhodes,” he told her, “I’ll be right back Molly, I promise. I’m not leaving you.”

Molly felt like he was away from her for a lifetime, and she wept openly, sobbing as she felt everything inside her boiling, stretching sickeningly as if nothing in her body belonged there anymore. She gripped the duvet she was laying on, biting her lip to try to keep herself from screaming, the pain at a high-pitch now, lights bursting behind her closed eyelids. Her insides felt like they were being ripped out of her, eviscerated and panting, she opened her mouth and screamed, “SHERLOCK!” as pain tore through her like a blade.

“I’m here,” his voice was thick, an octave lower than his usual baritone, appearing out of nowhere by her bedside and breathing as if he’d run, “I’m here, Molly.”

“Hurts,” she whimpered as she held his hand squeezed, nearly breaking the bones in her grip, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“This is only the beginning, Molly,” an unfamiliar voice, Rhodes, added from the other side of the bed, “unfortunately there’s nothing we can do except let you go through it. I’ll feed you once the transition is nearly complete, to kick start it.”

\-------

Sherlock was about to crawl up the walls as he spent endless hours watching his Molly in so much pain that he began to worry about whether or not she could endure it all. He tried bringing her body temperature down, running back and forth the bathroom with a washcloth, hoping the water would help as he wiped her face with it, murmuring endlessly, mindlessly to her even though he wasn’t sure if she heard him or not. But he had to try, he had to do something.

He’d never felt so helpless in his life, watching Molly’s small body convulse and shift before his eyes, oceans of tears streaking her face, biting her lip so hard to not let out a scream that she had started bleeding a little. “I’m here Molly,” he told her, climbing into the bed next to her, stroking her face, pressing his lips to her ear as he spoke, her body arching on the bed like an archer had strung her up to a bow. “I’m here,” he kept telling her, letting her grip his hand and scream.

Reality currently didn’t contain any room for Sherlock to ponder at the absurdity of what he was witnessing, didn’t give him a moment’s respite to consider the fact that his Molly, his wife, the love of his life, the one person that mattered the most to him in the world, was a vampire. A creature, a species beyond the human genus, beyond Bram Stoker and glittering modern interpretations, far more advanced in physiology.

Sherlock’s reality was reduced to this moment, this very second in time where Molly’s death seemed to be imminent. Her heart was dropping and the blood in her cheeks was draining, leaving her looking pale and drawn. Hours upon hours later, she finally seemed to settle, the calm in her body terrifying him more than her screaming, terror gripping him as he called her name again, his lips against her ear, “Molly?” his voice cracked, “Molly, can you hear me?”

She made a small sound in her throat to acknowledge him but her eyes were closed, a peaceful expression on her face.

            Desperation exploded in his chest, his mind palace collapsing in on itself as he watched her against the sweat stained sheets, listless. Lifeless. So unlike his energy filled, bubbly, lovely wife.

The walls of his mind palace began to cave in as tsunami-like waves crashed through everything he knew, toppling and drowning all that he was as the very foundation began to rot away, crumbling like a house of cards as she disappeared from his world, the volume of water too much, too heavy.

“No,” he moaned, his fingers scrambling to her throat, trying to find her pulse, “no, Molly,” the words ripped out of his chest, feeling so faint that his vision began to waver like he was drowning, buried beneath gallons of heavy, unforgiving water.

            A ghost arose in his mind palace, walking among the ruins like a conqueror returning to the sight of his fall, victorious at last. “Poor little Sherlock,” Moriarty clicked his tongue, smiling as another rumble went through the mind palace, the waves crashing through with unforgiving destruction, another wall collapsing as Molly went further and further away from him.

Sherlock stared at the specter that stood in the ruins, not having seen the ghost since he had found his peace in Molly’s arms, in her love. “Left all alone again. First Redbeard, I mean _Victor_. Then John. Then Mary. And now Molly. All your goldfish, drowning because of you. What did you expect? That your scrap of _ordinary_ would some miraculously survive all that you’ve done? Actions have consequences, Sherlock,” he said in a sing song voice, “whatever you put into the world always comes back, no matter how much you want to pretend it doesn’t. We all weave a web in this world, and every fiber is connected. Remember what happened to Mary? How _her_ life caught up with her? Every action has _consequences_!”

Rhodes, who had been lounging rather carelessly in the corner of the room, reading a magazine was now standing on the opposite end of the bed, tilting his head to look at Molly’s lifeless body with unconcerned calculation. Narrowing his neon blue eyes, the man, _male_ , reached out to lightly touch Molly’s forehead. “Shit,” he cursed softly.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sherlock demanded, knowing that he would tear this male apart with his bare hands if anything happened to Molly.

“She’ll be fine,” he said quickly, “I just wasn’t planning on her being unconscious for this part,” the male flipped his eyes up at Sherlock, “I’m gonna have to feed her from my throat. You’re not carrying, are you?”

“Carrying?”

“Weapons,” he clarified as he shrugged out of the leather jacket, throwing it to the armchair where it landed with a heavy, metallic thud.

Confused, Sherlock answered anyway, “no,” dragging his eyes down to Molly. God, her pulse was so faint, barely there. She was unresponsive, checking her eyes he found her pupils fixed and dilated, her fingers cold as he held them in his chest, “Molly,” he called her again, hoping she would hear him.

“Good, makes this so much easier,” when he heard the whisper of steel, Sherlock looked up to find that the man- _male-_ had stripped down to a wife-beater, his heavily muscled arms and chest flexing as he took out a dagger from the shoulder holster he wore, the guns now sitting on his leather jacket. Sherlock watched in horrified fascination and confusion as the man sat down on the edge of the bed, bringing the dagger to his wrist and slicing, blood blooming on his perfect skin and he brought his wrist methodically to Molly’s mouth. “Open your mouth Molly,” he told her, his eyes clinical, “Molly? Come on girly, I know you can hear me. Open your mouth.”

Sherlock pushed away the water he was drowning in, slogging through the water that was flooding his mind to brush his thumb across his wife’s lips, “Molly, open your mouth for me darling,” he told her, pressing his lips to her cheek.

Rhodes cursed again, “come on! You know you want it,” he was telling her, “I’ve got a nice treat for you, just open your mouth. Your husband’s here too, he’ll give you an even _bigger_ treat if you behave.”

“Come on darling,” he urged, gripping her chin in his fingers, opening her mouth, his lips still buried against her cheek, murmuring to her as he watched in terrified fascination as deep red blood tricked into her mouth. Words began to bubble out of him, his thoughts unhinged, “do you remember that night, before the fall, when you asked what I needed? _You_ , Molly. I need you always. You can’t leave me here like this, not when the game just got so much more interesting.”

Rhodes and Sherlock were frozen in a tableau over Molly, Rhodes’ eyes calculating as he watched over her, his wrist still pressed against Molly’s open mouth. Sherlock was laying on her other side, his lips pressed against her cheek as he stroked her forehead with on hand, his other forcing her mouth to stay open. A lifetime turned into two, turned into three, time stretched beyond Sherlock and he wanted to scream, wanted to skip to the ending of this ordeal to find out how it ended.

Her eyes flipped open, a quake running through her body as she roared back to life, latching on to the wrist at her mouth, making mewling noises as she sucked on the blood. “Hold on girl, hold on,” Rhodes moved a flash of movement, “don’t kill me,” he told Sherlock briefly as he quickly made a cut at his throat, cupping the back of Molly’s head and lifting her to his throat. When Molly made a moaning sound, Sherlock understood why Rhodes had asked about weapons, jealousy heating the top of his skull as he watched his Molly at the colossal blonde’s throat, those muscular arms holding her to his throat. 

“Shit!” Rhodes cursed, “shit! Man, she’s about to stop and she’s nowhere near done feeding. Let her know you’re alright yo.”

Swallowing the wave of jealousy and anger, Sherlock moved to stand behind Rhodes, putting himself in Molly’s line of vision. The chocolate brown eyes were now an auburn color, a beautiful reddish brown as she looked up at him, blinking as she fed. He knelt on the bed behind Rhodes, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, “it’s alright love, I’m alright,” he assured her.

When she’d taken all she could, Sherlock moved behind Molly as she nearly collapsed against the bed, his hands fluttering over her throat and found a strong pulse. She gave him a small, content sigh as he settled her against the pillows, glancing over his shoulder at Rhodes to find the man licking at his wrist, his throat looking as raw and as chewed up as his throat. But with a swipe of his tongue, Rhodes’ wounds at his wrist closed, the skin healing in front of Sherlock’s eyes. He watched with fascination as the man licked his fingers to rub his saliva against his throat, where the skin healed itself the same as his wrist.

Rhodes’ chuckle was deep, “we carry our first aid kits in our spit,” he laughed, “my work here is done. She’s about to have one last bout of change and she’ll be done. I guarantee first thing she’ll want is a shower, and then food. My rooms down the hallway if you need me,” he told Sherlock before casually slipping out of the room, as if this was just another day for him. He poked his head back in as an afterthought, “oh and if you want, I can be her blood bag for however long y’all need me.”

But Sherlock wasn’t listening, barely registering as the man left the room, watching the muscles in Molly’s body quivering again in waves.


	8. Vampires Hymn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the smut train! Adult content below- reader discretion advised.

            Molly woke up ages later to find a head full of familiar black locks curled against her chest as she lay on her back. She wondered how many hours had passed, if they’d been days. Moving her hand to Sherlock’s head, stroking his hair absently, she closed her eyes with a deep sigh, remembering all that had happened, all that they had endured together.

            She touched her tongue to her teeth and grinned, feeling the sharp fangs. The only light in the room was from the bathroom, but she could already tell her vision had shifted, seeing on a spectrum her human eyes hadn’t been able to see. Her senses were heightened, and she turned her head to Sherlock’s head, inhaling the scent of her husband, moaning at how delicious he smelled, how alive he felt sleeping nestled so close to her heart.

            Her body felt longer, suppler, and she wondered what else had changed, if anything.       

            Laying quietly in the darkness, in the unexpected calm after the chaos of her transformation, she made her peace with the fact that she was a vampire. That whatever had made her human had melted away in the chaos of physiology and DNA. Her thoughts were still Molly Holmes-Hooper, the voice inside her head the same one that she had lived with all her life but there was something different in her tone now, especially when her thoughts shifted to her husband. Her mate.

            _Mine_.

            She shivered as the word awakened a sensation in her unlike anything she had experienced, a possessiveness that was overwhelmed with sexual desire for her husband, the need to mark him as hers for now and the rest of eternity.

            Molly must have made some sort of sound because Sherlock woke up, turning his head to look up at her with sleepy eyes, “Molly?”

            Smiling at her husband, she lifted a hand to brush her finger beneath his eyes. Sherlock Holmes first thing after waking up was a sight to see—those extraordinary colored eyes, their exotic shape, combined with the softness of sleep made him irresistible with those tussled curls. She slid her fingertip down over his sharp cheekbone, feeling the stubble beneath her palm as she traced the intracte, heart shaped peaks of his upper lip, then his full lower lip that was almost too perfect, too luscious. He opened his mouth slightly to draw in some air, and she slipped her finger inside the wet warmth of his mouth. His sleepy eyes flared with surprise but he closed his mouth around her finger. “I love you,” she murmured, shifting to her side so that they were pressed against each other completely, Sherlock rising above her.

            “I love you,” he responded, taking her hand to press a kiss to her palm, “how are you feeling?” he murmured, holding himself over on his elbow.

            “Like I need a bath,” she laughed, “like I can’t believe this is happening.”

            He smiled, leaning down to kiss her, and she only realized she was naked when she felt his hands span her ribcage, his thumb pressing against the plump underside of her breast. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he murmured against her mouth, but he remained where he was, kissing her slowly, teasing her to open for him, to dip his tongue into her mouth, stroking over hers languidly, tasting her. Using the tip of his tongue, she felt him touch her sharp canine and hiss, his erection pressing against her thigh through his trousers. But he tore himself away from her when she reached for his erection, leaving her to lay in the bed, smiling as she watched him walk away. She deeply appreciated the way his blue shirt was stretched tightly over his broad shoulders, his muscular back leading to a trim waist, the perfect shape of his ass and those long, long legs, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over his thick forearms.

            He was the most beautiful thing in the world.

            Taking a deep breath, she threw aside the sheet and rose up stiffly, her muscles and bones protesting as she shifted her weight. Taking another deep breath, she stood up, her knees nearly buckling as they accepted her weight. She walked to the bathroom rather unsteadily, but when she made it there, she grinned at the bathtub full of water, the scent of lavender floating over the hot water. Sherlock was leaning over, testing the temperature with his hand before turning off the tap.

            Molly found the mirror above the sink and looked at herself, curious to see if her new status as a vampire showed beyond her teeth and eyes, and the possessive way she thought of her husband. Her hair was still the same shade of brown but the strands of gray she’d been finding had disappeared. Her chocolate brown eyes were a different shade now, and she looked at them closely in the mirror, fascinated by the reddish-brown tint to them. She stared unabashedly at her naked body, turning this way and that and took stock of the fact that she seemed curvier than before.

            Narrowing her eyes at herself in the mirror, she barred her fangs at her reflection, hissing with the most furious expression she could muster. “You look like a ferocious kitten,” her husband chuckled.

            Molly rolled her eyes, “thanks for always knowing what to say.”

            Sherlock came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her naked body and pressing her against his chest, kissing the curve of her neck as she watched him in the mirror, his inexplicable ginger stubble scratching against her white skin. “Nothing’s changed that much,” he told her, “you’re just a bit taller,” he whispered, “and,” he ran his hands up her soft stomach, cupping her breasts in his warm palm, making her groan, “you overflow my hands.”

            Nearly melting, she let out a low groan, reaching a hand behind her to dig her fingers into his hair, careful not to tug too hard, not yet anyway. She cursed softly as they stood in the bathroom together with his big hands massaging her breasts, rubbing her nipples into painful sensation with the palm of his hand.

            “Sherlock,” she moaned, “God I need you,” she arched against him, pressing her hips into his and smiling as she felt his erection pressing against her.

            “Bath first,” he murmured, “come on.”

            He helped lower her into the lavender scented, rolling a thick towel and putting it under neck to support her head as she stretched out in the bath he’d drawn for her. “I want you,” she told him as he sat on the edge of the tub, watching her stretching her sore muscles in the water, the Epsom salt he’d added untangling knots of muscle in her body.

            Sherlock smiled, standing up, fully aware of Molly’s eyes as he stripped, throwing his clothes in a heap on the bed before returning to her. He stood just within reach and she held out her hand for him, running her hand up his thigh, feeling the quivering muscles beneath her touch, groaning as she watched his erection respond to her touch, jutting from his body with pride, demanding her attention.

God, he was so beautiful, he broke her heart all over again. Lifetimes, eons would not be enough to make her stop groaning with hunger at the sight of her naked husband. Pale skin covered taught, lean muscles, all his shirts and suits hiding that broad chest, strong abs, shoulders and biceps strong enough to carry the world, thick thighs and claves, that light dusting of hair that led from his chest, ending in a surprisingly thick patch at his base.

            His head fell back as Molly wrapped her wet fingers around his erection, sitting up in the bath as her husband stepped closer, his groan echoing through the bathroom. “You take my breath away,” she told him, rubbing the thick head of him with her thumb before stroking the length of him, “I can’t get enough of you,” she told him.

            “Molly,” he pushed her hand away even though it looked like it cost him dearly to do so. He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the tub, putting her hand on his thigh, “let me take care of you,” he said in a soft voice, his baritone having dropped an octave the way it always did when he was aroused.  She ran her hand over his thigh, scratching his skin with her nails as he grabbed the purple loofa, and ran it languidly over her body, washing her slowly, taking his time to run his gorgeous hands all over her.

            Sherlock kissed her languidly, licking her mouth open as he washed her breasts, smiling as she moaned in his mouth when he slipped his hands between her thighs. She was panting for Sherlock, spreading her legs for him under the water as he slipped his long middle finger between her wet folds. “Sherlock,” she breathed, a sigh escaping her as she felt his long middle finger inside her, stretching her as he licked at her mouth, pressing his palm against her throbbing clit.

            She lay back in the tub, her lips tingling from his kiss, her eyes on his face as he stroked her, using his thumb to tease her clit expertly, slipping a second finger inside her.  Molly gasped as sensation flooded her, her fingers digging into his thigh as she arched against his long fingers, her other hand running over her breasts, moaning his name. Gasping, she bit her lip, her sharp canine digging into her lip, “I want you inside me,” she told her husband, wrapping her finger around his thick erection and stroking him slowly.

            He lowered his tall body into the tub with her, and urging her forward on hips so she was straddling him, “you’re so beautiful Molly,” he told her, looking up at her as she knelt in the water, poised with him at her entrance. He looked like a pagan god, leaning back against the bath tub with her pressed against him, his arms resting against the lip of the tub, Molly holding herself over him with her hands on his chest. “When I thought I lost you, I went mad,” he told her softly, a furrow creasing his brow.

            She pressed kisses to his face, rubbing about that wrinkle between his eyes were lips, moving against him, teasing herself with the thick tip of him, “I know,” she whispered, “but I’m here still, put it out of your mind,” she whispered, dragging her fang over the shell of his ear, “fuck me Sherlock,” his erection reacting between her legs as she run her hands up to stroke his elegant throat, her thumb running over the thick vein that ran down his neck, “I want to feel you inside me my love. I want you to know how alive I feel.”


	9. Nature Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adult content below!

            Molly was on her hands and knees on the bed, her hair a wet and wild mess, curtaining her face as she listened to Sherlock’s movements behind her. There was a part of her that was slightly shocked by her blatant sexual desire. She had always been rather obsessed with Sherlock’s body, their combined sex-drive usually meant they spent entire days tangled together in bed or anywhere else. They had two speeds- making slow, languid love, connecting their bodies and souls together, the orgasms he gave her during those speeds making her want to cry from the beauty of it. Their other speed was fucking, nothing held back, their bodies pounding, often ending up with bruises and marks and screaming orgasms.

            But she had never been so free in engaging him in sex, often shyly initiating their play with a kiss and relying on the idea that her husband would know what she needed, without her having to say anything. Having the world’s only consulting detective as a lover often meant he could deduce what she needed from him.

            Today, however, Molly felt unhinged, unbridled in reaching for him with her hands, with her mouth, telling him what she needed explicitly. So when he stood behind her, gripping her hips with those strong hands as he pushed himself inside her in a single stroke, and she let out a scream of pure pleasure, her mouth lifting in a smile as he took her from behind, her head falling forward as he set a punishing tempo. Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds her husband made, the grunts that punctuated the height of every thrust, the moan as he slowly withdrew from her, his panting breath.

When he bit the skin between her shoulders, her torso collapsed on the bed, an animalistic sound exploding from the pit of her stomach as she came with her husband. Sherlock was rigid behind her, release inside her, his fingers digging deep into her lips as he held himself inside her, crying out in a surprised grunt of pleasure before collapsing on top of her.

            He lay boneless on his stomach, partially on top of Molly, breathing in gasps against the mattress. Molly untangled herself, from him, dragging her body to nestle against his back, resting her face between his shoulder blades, licking at his sweat slicked skin. “You’re going to be the end of me,” he murmured into the mattress

            Molly hummed against Sherlock’s skin, rubbing her cheek against his skin, smiling as the word “mine” flooded her thoughts. Sherlock lay obediently on his stomach as Molly kissed her way down his spine, pressing her mouth to every vertebra, her fingers a whisper against his skin as she licked the sweat from his skin. “You’re so perfect,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the base of spine, right where the luscious curve of his ass began, “I’ve loved your ass,” she told him now.

“Oh?” he chuckled, “I was always under the impression I didn’t have much to look at,” he grunted.

Molly laughed darkly, squeezing him with her hands, dipping her tongue into the base of his spine, making Sherlock groan, “that’s because you wear trousers all the time,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheeks, “you would break the world if you ever jeans.”

She bit the skin of his left cheek, and he laughed softly, “getting hungry?” he asked, turning his head to look at her.

            “Yes, actually,” she smiled, sliding up his body, straddling his back with her thighs and kissing him slowly as he lay on his stomach.

            His eyes flared with surprise, “really?”

            “Food,” she chuckled, “like actual food, not, you know. Blood.”

            “What would you like?” he asked her, his eyes fluttering shut as she rubbed against his back, his mouth falling open.

            “Chips,” she murmured, “and chocolate ice cream. Oh my God,” she moaned, “chips dipped _in_ chocolate ice cream,” she flopped to her back.

            Sherlock was still laughing at her as he dialed 5 on the old school phone, asking whoever it was that answered to bring them four portions of chips, chocolate ice cream, and tea. “Bacon!” she called out, “oooh, I would love some bacon.”

            “Bacon as well,” he chuckled, “extra crispy, and water.”

            Grumbling, her skin sensitive from the change and from the rather inspired lovemaking with Sherlock, she forced herself to get dressed as they waited for room service to arrive. Sherlock wrapped the sheet around him like a toga, and they settled together against the headboard, her head on his chest as she listened to his heartbeat. “How long have we been here?”

            “About three days,” he told her, “you slept for about sixteen hours after you changed completely.”

            “Christ,” she sighed, closing her eyes, “this all still feels like a dream.”

            “I know,” he murmured, “as long as we’re here, we’re going to think of it as a dream, Reality will hit once we stop outside,” he told her, “and try to deal with our new life together.”

            She looked up at him with a frown, “how are you doing with all of this Sherlock? I mean, you didn’t exactly sign up to be a vampire’s husband when we got married, Hell, I didn’t even sign up to be a vampire.”

            His expression was thoughtful, and she let herself drink in his profile, his drawn brows, the blunt tip of his nose, his luscious lips. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and lifting Molly with it, “in all my years, in everything I’ve ever seen and experienced, I never thought I would come to this point with you Molly, where I have to think about the fact that you now have to sustain yourself by drinking the blood of another member of your species. We’re not even the same species anymore,” he chuckled, “but I would rather have this new insanity added to our already rather insane life together, than not have you in my arms at all. It took me a while,” he continued, “but I eventually realized you are everything to me,” he glanced down at her, “do you remember my wedding vows?”

            “You mean those meaningless words you blurted out for the benefit of the friends and family we forced to attend a farce ceremony?” she grinned as he rolled his eyes, “yes, I remember. You said I was the air in your lungs, the beat of your heart, the light in your soul, the strength in your arms.”

            “I always need you Molly, vampire or human,” he grinned and was a breath away from kissing her when there was a knock at the door. Sherlock untangled himself from her, opening the door for a diminutive butler in formal livery. Molly smiled at him, realizing that Sherlock had built some sort of rapport with him.

            She barely noticed the butler leaving, eating the chips like a starving woman- _female_ \- dipping them into the soft-serve chocolate ice cream in the ornate bowls. Sherlock lounged against the armchair, watching her with confusion but didn’t comment. He told her about the past three days as she ate, about her change, how Rhodes had fed her and healed himself with his saliva, how he had watched her body transform in front of his eyes.

            They were nearly done with their feast of ice cream covered chips and bacon when another knock sounded at the door, Sherlock called for them to come in over his shoulders, his air dry curly hair sticking up in alluring ways. The door opened and Vasili and Rhodes walked in, grinning from ear to ear, “ah yes, the cravings,” Vasili smiled, “how are you doing, female?”

            Molly smiled at him, slightly astonished at the realization that her fangs were as long as his now. God, she would have to learn to smile without showing her teeth. “I feel like Molly two point oh,” she laughed.

            Vasili nodded knowingly, “the body takes some getting used to but it’s not too bad for females.”

            “How much longer do we have to stay here?” Sherlock asked and she noticed that the disdain that had colored his tone three days ago had melted away. In fact, the two sounded friendlier now.

            “You’re free whenever you want to go, we have the car on standby,” he told them, “but I recommend that you feed from Rhodes first.”

            “I’ll give you my number, you can just text me whenever you’re hungry and I’ll come to you,” he said, leaning against the door with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth.

            “Thank you,” she cleared her throat, remember what his blood tasted like, “uhm, I was wondering, do we have any special powers?”

            “You can move across spaces really fast, like this,” Vasili disappeared from where he’d been standing by the door and appeared across the room in the corner, “we can lock and unlock doors,” he demonstrated, “and lights,” the room suddenly plunged into darkness but he willed them on again. “That’s about it,” he shrugged, “the purer bloods sometimes can read thoughts or move objects with their thoughts but that’s rare. You need to also check to see how sensitive you are with light,” he reminded her, “but don’t try to disappear for a few weeks, your body needs to heal.”

            She cleared her throat, “right. Don’t appear and disappear at will for a bit.”

            Vasili chuckled, “you’ll get used to all this soon, promise.”

            She took a deep breath, nodding and watched as he methodically picked his way across the room. Sherlock frowned, “don’t mind my asking,” he murmured, “you’re blind.”

            “That wasn’t much of a question, Mr. Holmes,” Vasili turned to Sherlock, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rather sinister smile, “but yes. I am. The Blind King,” with a nod, he walked out of the room.

            “Super friendly, isn’t he?” Rhodes grinned, “fucker’s a pain in the ass but what are ya gonna do? I was conceived and trained to protect him with my life,” he looked at Molly, “how ya feelin? Hungry yet?”

            When she’d fed from him before, she’d been in too much pain to think about what was happening, in too much pain as she hovered somewhere between life and death to think about how awkward, how intimate it was to feed from him. For as long as she lived, she wouldn’t forget what it had felt like when Sherlock had leaned towards her to kiss her forehead while she’d been latched on to Rhodes’ throat. But her biology seemed to take over, and although her thoughts were filled with her husband, with desire for him, her teeth extended out of their own accord as she thought about tasting Rhode’s blood again.

            Rhodes’ chuckled darkly, “wrist this time,” he said, already comfortably dressed in a short-sleeve t-shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing up at Sherlock who was clenching his fists at his sides, clenching and unclenching his jaw, grinding his teeth, “the best way to do this is for you to be on the floor,” Rhodes shook his head as Molly gathered her hair up in a ponytail, following his instructions as a frenzy started deep in the pit of her stomach.

            She murmured her husband’s name her hand searching for him as she leaned forward. Rhodes put his wrist on his knee, palm up and her eyes traced the veins in his thick wrist, the frenzy growing to a chaotic pitch, Molly took a deep breath, instinctively sinking her fangs into his veins, the blood hitting her tongue, a thick, heavy liquid that tasted like expensive wine. A part of her was mourning for Sherlock as he stood somewhere behind her with that angry, broken expression on his face but she was too hungry, too relieved to be absorbing the power of the blood to tear herself away from him.

            But then she felt him kneeling behind her, his legs bracketing her body, pressing her chest against her back as he wrapped his arms around her middle, “it’s ok,” he told her, kissing the back of her neck, “feed Molly,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against her skin, feathering kisses against her skin.

            She relaxed and heard the smile in Rhodes’ voice, “there you go, good girl.”

            Molly gripped her husband’s hands in hers, intertwining their fingers together before she lifted his hand up to her breast, feeding from Rhodes’ wrist as Sherlock slipped his hands beneath her shirt, rubbing the tips of her breasts with his palms. She felt Rhodes shift and looked up to see that he was lying down on the bed now, his wrist still on his knee as she pressed her hips back against Sherlocks, feeling him growing against her back.

            When she was full, she let Rhodes’ wrist go, licking the wound close on his instructions. She leaned into the circle of Sherlock’s arms, Rhodes lying still on the bed as if he were catching his breath, but she didn’t care about him, as crass as it sounded. She turned her head on Sherlock’s chest, licking her mouth self-consciously but wanting to kiss him so much she was dying from it. His eyes were bright, heavy with desire, practically glowing in his skull as he dropped his gaze to her mouth, at the way her tongue darted out to touch her lips. She could hear his heart pounding, the way he was panting for her, his erection heavy, an erotic, earthy scent rising from his body.

            He kissed her slowly, running his tongue gently over her sharp teeth as she leaned back against him, moaning into his mouth as he tasted her, unaware of Rhodes slipping out of the room. Unaware of the world turning around them as she forced him on his back on the carpet, tugging the sheet away from his body as if she were revealing a work of art, taking him into her mouth and moaning at the taste of him.

            _Mine._


	10. The Mercy Seat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature content below- reader discretion advised  
> Enjoy!

            They were driven back to Baker street as Vasili had promised, the car dropping them off around 8 in the evening and driving away as if there was nothing amiss. He’d been silent the entire ride back, holding her hand against his thigh but his attention had been out of the window as if fascinated completely by the passing scenery, pensive and silent. She hadn’t tried to start a conversation with him, knowing how her husband needed his space sometimes to think, to process things at a pace that she couldn’t imagine. So she let him wander through his mind palace, happy to have him at least physically with her.

Molly squared her shoulders as she followed her husband up the steps of 221B, smiling at him when he held the door open for her but he barely noticed.

            “Molly! Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson instantly came out of her flat, drying her hands on a towel, “where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”

            “Hi Mrs. Hudson,” Molly smiled, Sherlock rudely walking upstairs without pausing, “sorry, we didn’t mean to worry you. We just decided to take a few days away from the city.”

            “Without any luggage?” Mrs. Hudson frowned, sounding rather outraged.

            “It was spur of the moment,” Molly shrugged, “you know how it is.”

            “Ah yes, I remember,” she sighed dreamily, “Molly dear, have you done something different with yourself?”

            She tried to hide her grin behind her hand, worried that Mrs. Hudson would see her fangs, “probably just relaxed,” she told the landlady.

            “Would you like me to bring you two anything to eat or drink?” she asked kindheartedly, having completely believed Molly’s story about relaxation having changed her, making her look different.

            “No, I think we’re ok, thanks though,” she began climbing the stairs, “good night Mrs. Hudson!”

            Molly took the steps two at a time, her new and improved body giving her agility and stamina to climb the stairs faster. She noticed she moved more gracefully too, having lost the gawkiness that had plagued her most of her life. It may have been her imagination but she even thought she sounded more graceful, more put together.

            Entering the flat, she found Sherlock was in his shirtsleeves, standing by the window with his laptop in his hand, his eyes narrowed and busily reading emails, she imagined. Taking off her coat and hanging it beside her husbands by the door, she couldn’t help shaking her head, “haven’t you had enough stimulation for a few days? I mean, your wife did just get turned into a vampire.”

            “You didn’t turn into a vampire,” he corrected her absently, “you evolved into one, there’s a difference.”

            She laughed, going to the kitchen to wash her hands before putting on the kettle out of habit. She had promised Vasili that she wouldn’t try to use her powers just yet but she was too curious. Focusing all her energy, she grinned when she managed to turn off all the lights in the flat, plunging her and Sherlock into darkness. “Hey!” he said indignantly from the living room.

            “Sorry,” she called over her shoulder, walking back into the living room with a smile and settling into his leather chair. She rested her cheek against the armrest, breathing in the scent that was so much more familiar to her now, she curled up in the chair, using the remote to flip on the TV, knowing her husband would be occupied with his emails for the next several hours.

            A few minutes later, he walked towards her, “move,” he grumbled and she lifted herself just enough so that he could settle in beside her. With her legs draped in his lap, they spent the next hours quietly together. Not doing anything, not even talking, just existing together with Sherlock playing with his phone and Molly watching _Parade’s End_.

            Molly had thought that coming home would have been more momentous, more of a ground shattering event as she was forced to come to terms with her new identity, with the self that was a whole new species. Not only that, but she was now aware of a reality beyond what she had always known, a world where vampires existed, had a king and a system of self-governance. And the reality that her father had been a duke, a man of great importance to the vampire world, the part of his life that he had given up for Molly’s sake.

            She conjured up her father from her childhood memories. She had always thought the otherworldliness she had attributed to him had been her imagination, a little girls’ fascination with her father. She recalled his smiling face, the crinkles around his eyes when he laughed, the light color of his eyes, his white blonde hair. He had been her entire world, and it had gone tumbling away with him when he passed away. Molly had been distraught, destitute, the only grounding force in her life had suddenly disappeared. 16-years-old and grieving, she had kicked against whatever she could, lashing out at her aunt and uncle that had taken her in afterwards. She hadn’t ever questioned where her father’s family was, and had always simply assumed he didn’t keep in touch with them.

            She had spent the next three years smoking cigarettes, wearing all black all the time, with heavy black eyeliner, creating a look that told the world that she was more than ready to fight it. Come what may. Her aunt had tried to get her to quit smoking, had tried to impose curfews and curtail the partying that Molly had suddenly taken to. But all her aunt had needed to do was be patient with Molly. She eventually grew out of the black clothes and eyeliner, stopped partying so hard and began to focus on school, cutting herself down to two cigarettes a day.

            That’s how she’d met Sherlock. He’d been ahead of her in university, just by a year or two but they were in the same organic chemistry classes together at Oxford. She’d found him in her favorite smoking spot, his eyes bloodshot and obviously high out of his mind, skinny as a rail as he draped himself against the building behind him. He’d struck her as a piece of art, a statute carved from Carrara marble, sculpted by Michelangelo’s talented fingers and mind to display the burdens of a great mind.

She had taken one look, seen the way he was holding his arm, puffing on his cigarette, that he’d recently injected himself with something. Wordlessly she’d sat against the wall beside him, lighting her own cigarette without any judgement, without any thought as to who he was, how brilliant he was.

            It had become their routine for the next however many months until she finally quit smoking. She still came to sit with him in their secret spot, until one day he hadn’t shown up at all. She later found he’d been taken to rehab by his older brother, and he sported crystal-clear eyes the next time she’d seen him with three nicotine patches on his skinny forearms. But at least there hadn’t been any new needle injection sites.

            “What are you thinking about?” he asked her now, touching the side of her face with his long fingers.

            She realized she’d been smiling at the memories, “nothing,” she chuckled, “just remembering how you and I met.”

            Sherlock shook his head, “drugged out of my mind, but I still somehow managed to trick you into falling in love with me.”

            Molly raised her brow at him, “how do you know that’s when I fell in love with you?”

            He mimicked her expression, somehow on Sherlock, it looked posh and aristocratic, “isn’t it?”

            “I don’t know,” she murmured, raising her hand to brush his lips with her fingertips, “it was either then, or when you asked me for help, but honestly, I’ve loved you for so long Sherlock, it feels impossible to try to pin it down. I’ve loved you all my life. When did you realize you loved me?”

            He pursed his lips in though, “February 15, 2003 in Oxford, behind the biochemistry building on South Park rode,” he recited, “you were wearing jeans and a ridiculously huge jumper, your hair was shorter then, and you looked like such a goody-two shoes I about ran away from you, until you just sat down and started smoking. I remember waiting for you to say something, preaching at me about the evils of cocaine and heroin. But you just sat with me, and I fell in love with you because you made me want to be a better man, just by sitting there.”

            Molly couldn’t help herself, lifting her torso to kiss him slowly, languidly running her tongue over his mouth, “why the hell did it take you a decade to realize it?”

            “I always realized it Molly, I just didn’t see the value in it until I understood that I would die without you in my life,” he told her, “that day in the ambulance did it. Even if Eurus hadn’t forced my hand, I would’ve come to you. As important as it was to put Culverton Smith behind bars and draw John out of the hell he was in after Mary,” he shook his head, “I set the wheels in motion with a pretty good understanding of how close to death I would have to get. I knew that, I understood it. I made my peace with it but in that ambulance, I never wanted to stay alive so much in my life, just to find out what made you find anything in me worthy of those tears.”

            He kissed her slowly, licking her mouth open, his hand nestled between her thighs as she sighed with awakening hunger, winding her hands around his neck and holding him against her. He shifted them, sitting her in his leather armchair, kneeling on the ground between her thighs as their tongues danced together, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt as he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of her pajamas. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his long fingers digging into her bottom, pulling her closer to the edge of the chair.

            Sherlock’s eyes were bright with passion, with desire, his lips swollen and wet from their kisses as he pulled away from her, slowly drawing her pajamas down her legs, smiling with approval when he saw she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She took off her shirt, tossing it somewhere behind her as Sherlock ran his hands between her thighs, spreading her legs for him as he licked his lips, watching intently as she ran her hands over her breasts. Molly moaned his name as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her creamy white thighs, her fingers digging into the leather of the chair as she arched her back. But this was Molly’s favorite part, the way he looked into her eyes as he brought his face closer to her wet heat, the way his pink tongue darted out to lick his lips, the knowing smile before he buried his lips against her, the erotically calculating look in his mercurial eyes.

            He knew just what to do, just how to taste her, methodically and deliberately using his tongue to thrust inside her, making her buck against him until she dug her fingers into his hair, holding him against her as she came over and over against his mouth.

            Panting, she smiled at him, glowing in the aftermath of the orgasms he’d given her. He was still fully dressed, and the gloss on his lips and chin made her shiver, reaching for him and hugging him. Sighing with deep content, nuzzling his throat, she licked his vein, “do you,” he cleared his throat, “if you ever get the urge to bite me, Molly, don’t fight the urge.”

            Molly pressed her forehead against Sherlock, “Christ Sherlock, we’re eventually going to have to talk about it, have to figure out what I’m going to do about work, about whether or not I can go out in daylight, how we’re going to tell our friends and family about why I’m not aging…” and she gasped softly, the way Sherlock closed his eyes told her he’d already thought about where she was going. That’s why he’d been in such a dark mood when they’d gotten home, why he’d been so desperate to taste her, possess her, because he had thought about the only thing she hadn’t let herself think about.

            She was practically immortal, married to a mortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really warms my heart to see y'all enjoying this little piece of Sherlolly fun! And you guys are asking the right questions too!! And remember, every time you comment, a fanfic writer gets her wings.


	11. All Things Move Toward Their End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor TFP spoilers!

Sherlock held Molly’s naked body in his arms, but she was inconsolable as she wept wretchedly against him, the sudden realization of what it meant for her to be married a mortal having washed over her in a wave of sorrow. Whatever peace she’d found after her orgasm vanished. He held her against his chest, stroking her hair and pressing kisses to whatever part of her face he could. She clutched his shirt in her hands, her body shaking with her emotions. “Listen to me,” he told her, “it doesn’t matter. We have all this time together now, why worry about the future?” he couldn’t quite believe he was saying these words to her, advising someone about how not to think about the future when he planned everything out months in advance.

She looked into his eyes, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, “you _are_ my future,” she told him, “I don’t want lifetimes if you’re not there with me. I don’t want any of this if you’re not there to share it with. _God_! Sherlock I used to think that even if we lived to be a hundred, it wouldn’t be enough with you. And now…”

“Molly,” he cupped her face in his palms, “ _listen to me_. Don’t think about that, you can’t think about that,” he told her, pressing his lips to hers, hoping to distract her, “all things to move towards their end, nothing will change that. Even as a vampire, the way Vasili was explaining it, you will age, and your body will deteriorate just at a slower pace. When I’m 80, you’ll still be this gorgeous, vibrant young woman and everyone that sees you on my arm will think ‘oh look at that old bastard, he must be loaded

 “Shut up,” she cried harder against him, “I don’t want that,” she cried.

 

* * *

 

Three days later and Molly was still rattling around with the thought that he was going to die before her. That her beautiful, vital Sherlock would age and grow old without her, while she remained blissfully cocooned from the physical ravages of time. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to watch his strong body bend with the dictates of age, his beautiful raven locks streaking with gray, then silver, then snow white. Every time she let her thoughts drift, she forced herself to step away from them because she knew it would consume her and take away the joy of being with him.

On the second day after they’d come home, she’d woken up early in the morning sitting up in their bed. They’d replaced the curtains in the bedroom with black-out ones that kept out the sunlight. Sherlock was asleep next to her, boneless and relaxed on his back, the sheet barely covering his naked body. He was fascinating when he slept, so peaceful and still, completely the opposite of what he was like when he was awake and running around. The kinetic, maniacal energy that drove him during the day drained out of him in sleep, leaving him peaceful, his mouth slightly open, his face lax.

She slowly rose out of bed, naked as the day she was born, her body bruised in the most delicious places as she walked towards the window. She used her fingers to draw the curtain back, wincing at the sliver of sunshine but smiled when her skin didn’t burn. Sherlock’s sunglasses were on the shelf next to the window, she slipped them on before opening the curtain completely, putting her entire body in front of the window and smiled wide, her skin not melting the way Vasili had warned it would. 

“Molly!” Sherlock’s alarmed voice was followed by a thump, and she turned to see that he’d landed hard on his stomach, the sheets having tangled themselves around his legs. “What are you doing?” he asked angrily, and she watched with amusement as he untangled himself, trying to keep his dignity and indignity intact while he hoisted himself up to his feet.

“I’m fine,” she laughed, looking at him over the top of his aviator sunglasses, “the sunlight doesn’t affect me so that’s one less thing to worry about.”

He rubbed his face roughly with his hands, “you shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, “what if you weren’t—” he used his hand to make himself stop talking, taking a deep breath and looking down at his feet, “what if you weren’t….immune?” he asked in forced calm.

“I stuck my hand out first,” she rolled her eyes, walking towards him to press a kiss over his heart, “I didn’t just wake up and decide to throw myself in front of the sun. I even took the precaution of wearing your sunglasses.”

He looked down at her, a smile spreading over his lips, “they’re too big for you,” he murmured. There was something inexplicable in his expression, a softness that she knew was reserved only for her, never glimpsed by anyone else. There was a mixture of pain in his expression with utter, euphoric elation and a tinge of possessive darkness, and that softness in his expression that always melted her. She had first seen it the night he had shown up in her flat, the night after the horrible phone call where he’d forced her to say those three little words to him.

Molly remembered with clarity how drawn he’d looked, how ancient with the lines around his eyes and face more pronounced. He had broken her heart with the tale he told her about, confessing everything that had happened that caused the phone call. She’d realized that he was seeking comfort from her, and they’d up huddled up together on the floor of her bedroom, clinging on to each other. When he’d finally stopped crying, he’d pulled back just enough to tell her, “it’s always been true for me too, Molly. It’s just taken me a while to understand it. I love you so much.”

She was sure their friends and family had seen it during their first dance at their wedding, but she’d been too busy looking at her handsome husband to notice anything that wasn’t him. He’d looked so handsome, more so than usual in his tuxedo and slicked back hair, the gold wedding band looking too perfect on his slim finger.

No matter how much she had thought she loved him before, it had grown day by day, second by second once they’d moved in together. No matter how obnoxious he was, no matter how much they bickered and argued, his love grounded her. And she knew, had seen, the affects their relationship had on him. He was still manic and psychotic, flying into fits of spoiled rage, driving her completely insane when his nicotine cravings clouded his judgement, but they were becoming less frequent. His posture was more relaxed now, reserving his austere formality for the police or clients. He was easier to talk to, gave his smiles and laughs more freely.

She glanced up at him now, at the crinkles around the corner of his eyes when he smiled at her, the small signs of age he showed even as a man at his absolute prime. Sherlock leaned down to kiss her and she was grateful for the distraction because she didn’t want to see the tears welling up in her eyes.

Molly had been wracked, tortured completely by the thought of spending lifetimes without him. She wrapped her arms around her husband, holding him as tightly as she possibly could, wanting to be absorbed in his skin, unwilling to spend even a moment without him.

Eternity seemed to stretch before her like a deadly snake, a path filled with shadows if he wasn’t there with her to share the adventure. As she cupped his face in her palms, tracing his delicate bone structure with her thumbs, willing herself to be lost in his slow kiss, she vowed to find a solution, find a way to keep him with her for as long as she could.

And so, several hours later, she left Sherlock to his work under the pretense of picking up some groceries and giving him space to focus on the new case Greg has brought over. Stepping out into the cold night, she took a moment to look around with her new eyes, relishing how the night gave up its secrets to her. The shadows belonged to her now, and that possessive part of her, that part that lived and breathed for Sherlock, enjoyed the fact that she could protect him better now with her heightened senses, her ability to move with lightning speed.

She found a dark corner where human eyes wouldn’t see her easily and took a deep breath, focusing all her energy on transferring herself completely to the mansion where the brotherhood lived. Sending every fiber and molecule of her body hurdling through time and space, dimly registering the way the glittering lights of London melted away to rolling lawns. Opening her eyes, she grinned at the massive oak double doors, hidden by a thick mist generated by the Brother’s power to keep away unwanted humans.

The door swung open almost immediately after she’d rang, Molly stepping in with a grin at the diminutive butler who had the sweetest smile. She was about to ask to see the king when she heard his voice from atop the grand staircase, “Molly? Is everything alright?”

She watched the careful way he made his way down the stairs, his hand gripping the bannister. “Yeah,” she answered, reminding herself that this was a vampire king over 300 years old and not a 25-year-old with long hair and a gym fetish. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Let me guess,” he grinned, baring his fangs, “it’s about your human mate.”


	12. Nowhere to Rest, Nowhere to Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFP spoilers and some adult content!

With every visit to Sherrinford, Sherlock returned to London feeling utterly exhausted, drained, as if the very core of his existence was called into question. When Molly had suggested he play the violin for Eurus, he hadn’t expected this level of connection with his little sister. The knowledge of Molly, the safety of her love had helped him maneuver his family out of the crises that followed the East Wind’s arrival. He knew without a doubt that had it not been for Molly, he couldn’t have handled any of it. But his Molly had been there for him once the wave of emotion had struck, and he had found coming home to her to be a healing process that warmed him. Completed him.

His violin in hand, he climbed up the stairs to 221B, overwhelmed by the need to wrap Molly in his arms, bury himself inside her and lose himself in her love. In all his years, he had never thought he would be so reliant on another person for emotional and physical comfort, never thought he would be so desperate for emotional connection, for that moment where he was just held in her arms, sighing against his woman. She healed wounds within him he wasn’t even aware of, only realizing they had existed once she freed him of their burden.

Pushing the door open, he called out for her as he set the violin case down, unwinding the scarf around his throat and hanging the Belstaff on the hook by the door. “In here!” she poked her head out of the kitchen, “hello darling,” she grinned at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously, following her into the kitchen and chuckled.

“Nothing,” she smiled, her hair up in a ponytail wearing a comfortable, sleeveless, gauzy dress, the tube top constantly slipping to reveal the tops of her creamy white breasts, distracting him endlessly, “just baking some ginger nuts for you,” she held up her mug, “tea?” she asked him, unknowingly mimicking him when’d offered John the eyeball garnished tea.

“You first,” he murmured, dropping his jacket on the stool and walking around the kitchen island to wrap his arms around his wife, burying his face against her throat.

“Are you ok?” she murmured after a few moments, running her fingers through his hair, stroking him in that comforting way.

“I am now,” he told her, wrapping his arms tighter around her body. He closed his eyes, his mind assaulted by the image of his sister behind the glass, her eyes unwavering as she played the duet with him. He had tried his best not to reveal anything in his face that would hint at anything new in his life, and he was sure Eurus hadn’t guessed. But it drained him to see her there, reminded her of all that he had lost, all that had torn his world apart, the trickle effect of childhood trauma to his adulthood.

She must have sensed his wandering thoughts because she pulled away, pressing her lips to his throat, right over his vein, “good,” she murmured, dragging a fang down his throat, “have some tea,” she told him, pushing him to the stool.

His wife was behaving strangely.

After two cups of tea and countless ginger nuts, baked to perfection, exactly the way he loved them. Sherlock was laying on the sofa now, eyes shut with his hands steepled under his chin, four nicotine patches scattered across his forearm as he listened to her moving around the kitchen. He’d offered to help her clean up but she’d told him she didn’t mind, and kicked him out to the sitting room with kisses, playfully slapping his hands away as he’d tried to tug down the top of her dress.

She was behaving strangely for Molly, not just the new vampire Molly. But then, he wasn’t sure exactly how vampires behaved on a day to day basis, he had no information to compare it against to draw conclusions as to whether or not his wife was behaving strangely for a vampire.

But he at least knew that she was behaving strangely for his Molly. The last time she’d been behaving this skittishly, he’d walked into 221B the next day to find their friends and family waiting for him with balloons and presents, celebrating his birthday.

The fact that it was the end of October ruled out any birthday surprises she could spring on him, their wedding anniversary wasn’t for another five months.

He suddenly felt her straddle him, sitting on top of him without a word, having snuck up on him. His eyes flipped open, looking up to find her smiling as she sat on top of him, the tube top slipping so low he knew that with one small movement, he would be able to lick her nipples into his mouth. “Did you like my ginger nuts?” she asked him, steading herself by putting her hands on his chest, rubbing against his erection that needed no further invitation to thicken and harden for his wife.

“I love your ginger nuts,” he told her, gripping her hips as she continued moving on top of him, making him groan, his erection pulsing to life with every movement she made.

Molly leaned down, pressing her breasts against his chest, her cheek against his with her lips close to his ear, “I love your ginger nuts too,” she said in such a seductive voice, it took Sherlock a moment to realize what she’d said. He burst out laughing, shaking against her as she giggled.

“Molly Hooper,” he sighed, digging his fingers into her sides, “I adore you,” he told her.

Pulling back, she looked down at him, “mine,” she murmured, her eyes literally glowing as she bent down to kiss his breath into his lungs, making him gasp, arch against her to rub himself between her legs. She lifted her skirt away, bunching it at her waist and he gasped when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “You’re not the only person that can predict behaviors and plan ahead, Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured, “my husband,” reaching between them to cup him through his trousers, “my love”. He grinned against her mouth as she unbuttoned his zipper, all thought leaving him as he felt her cool hand against her erection, “my mate,” she purred, stroking him slowly as she kissed him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth rhythmically as if she were fucking him.

“I’ve created a monster,” he murmured as she pulled back to sit back on his thighs, stroking his cock as she sat astride him, her head tilted as she watched him. He lifted his head, riveted by the way her fingers moved over him, the sensations she drew from his body as she rubbed her thumb over the slit at his thick tip, the way she dipped her hand down to cup him.

He reached up to slip the dress down over her breasts, fascinating by the buds of her nipples, lifting his head to lick her, slowly sucking her into his mouth, making her gasp. “Sherlock,” she gasped breathlessly, “I need you,” she told him as he rolled her flesh into his mouth.

“Take me,” he murmured, turning his attention to her other breast.

He didn’t need to tell her twice, lifting her hips enough to slip him inside her, both of them gasping as he was enveloped in her warmth, in everything that was Molly, everything that was familiar.

_Home._

She arched against, sitting up on him, her head thrown back as she took pleasure from him. He watched her, fascinated by the emotions that flittered across her face, the concentration and pleasure, the smile on her lips as she took him, fucking him properly. “Sherlock,” she moaned, “I want you to do something for me,” she gasped, lifting her hips so that only the tip of his erection was inside her, then slowly, exquisitely lowered herself on him, killing him slowly.

“Anything,” he gasped, arching involuntarily to bury himself inside her

“Open your mouth,” she murmured, leaning down and holding herself above him with one hand, smiling down at him, the new angle slipping him deeper inside his wife and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, astonished in the pleasure that threatened to erupt from every pore in his body.

He was too distracted, too obsessed with the way her wetness enveloped him and absently, obediently opened his mouth, his eyes fluttered shut as Molly sat still, her core pulsing rhythmically around him. “Trust me,” she murmured, and he opened his eyes to see her score herself, biting her wrist with her elongated fangs, blood pooling in bright red blossoms against her snow-white skin. Her reddish-brown eyes watched him with a hunger, with an erotic darkness as she put her wrist against his mouth.

Sherlock Holmes had never thought he would be in this possession, his cock buried deep inside his vampire wife, contemplating whether or not to drink her blood. But he lifted his head, unable to resist and gasped out loud when her blood touched his tongue, coating the back of his throat. His eyes flared, his cock tightening and exploding inside Molly, pulsing and jerking as he drank from her, orgasm after orgasm rolling through him as she held her wrist to his mouth, moaning with him as his hips bucked. Every time he thought it was over, another wave rushed over him, pleasure wracking his body and leaving him breathless, surprising him with its force every time.

When she removed her wrist from his mouth, he watched through a haze as she licked the wounds at her wrist, rocking her hips gently against him as his body finally began to settle down. He was breathing hard, his entire body covered in sweat, his cock throbbing inside Molly. She was smiling down at him serenely, bending down to lick the corner of his mouth and he realized there had been a spot of blood there.

“That was delicious,” she smiled, “are you alright, my love?” she asked.

He was beyond words, beyond the realm of anything tangible in his world. Molly filled him, the taste of her blood more intricate, more exquisite than the finest red wine he could imagine. There was something in him that burst to life, relishing the fact that her blood was in him now, inside him, coating the back of his throat, sustaining him.

Molly seemed to understand the wordless, silent way his mouth worked, the way his throat convulsed but no words came out. “I know. Let’s go take a bath, you’ve made a mess of me,” she laughed wickedly.

“What was that?” he could barely hold his head up.

She bent down to kiss the tip of his nose, “Vasili warned me you’d have this…delicious reaction,” she murmured, “apparently, if a human drinks a vampire’s blood, whatever compounds that are in the vampire blood keep the human virtually ageless,” she bit her lip, suddenly unsure of herself, “I guess I should have asked before I fed you.”

Sherlock lifted a brow, “why?” the sternness in his expression told her he already knew the answer.

“You might not want such a long life with me,” she murmured.

He rolled his eyes, “honestly Molly, sometimes you say the most idiotic things,” his tone was severe, the austerity in his expression sharply defining the gorgeous angles of his face, harkening back to the biting remarks he had bruised her with during the earlier years of their friendship, “instead of sitting here, worrying idiotically about whether or not I want to spend lifetimes with you, go and drew a bath so I can wash you. You would think after _that_ I would be spent,” he mused, “but it would seem I’m already hard for you Molly and, as ever, I need you. Just you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite chapter to write, the ginger nuts joke cracked me up. Hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did!!! Last chapter tomorrow!  
> I throw in a lot of my own stories in here-- Molly and Sherlock's background and the post-TFP stuff is from my other writings, on FF. I'll eventually move them here but for the curious-- stories (in order) are "Come Into My Sleep" "Her Midnight Man" and "Signs of Four" under penname SiriuslyCrazyMav.


	13. From Her to Eternity

           Mycroft sat across from Sherlock with narrowed eyes, looking at his brother with suspicion.

Sherlock seemed younger.

The gray hairs that had been appearing in his unruly black curls disappeared completely, but Mycroft couldn’t see or smell the tell-tale signs of chemical interference. The crow’s feet and lines that had started to touch his younger brother’s face had disappeared as well, but again there was no sign of an injection site that gave away botox injections. And anyway, Sherlock was arrogant but not vain. He seemed healthier in general, his energy levels returning to the way he’d been as a man in his 20’s.

            Frowning, Mycroft watched his sister-in-law, the way she flittered around the apartment with inhuman grace. “Ah!” realization dawned on him, “so you _did_ go through the change! You are you father’s daughter, after all.”

            Sherlock spit out his mouth full of tea as Molly skidded to a halt on her way to their bedroom. Sherlock grabbed a napkin from the coffee table, patting ineffectively at the mess he’d made of his purple shirt, Molly blinking owlishly at Mycroft. “How the _hell_ did you know?” Sherlock demanded, sounding more exasperated than anything.

            Mycroft rolled his eyes, “oh please, Sherlock, as if an entire population would go unnoticed by the government. What a narrow perspective of the world,” he set down his teacup in the saucer, “the vampires and our government have an easy alliance, we don’t interfere with them and they don’t interfere with our affairs. But we keep tabs on each other,” he looked at Molly, “your father was the liaison between the humans and vampires. Much friendlier and far more diplomatic than that Blind King of theirs. Of course, Cyrus was before my time. He was great friends with Uncle Rudy before he retired. We haven’t quite found a replacement for him, but Cadan has been slowly taking over. He’s not royalty like Cyrus but as the leader of the Brotherhood, he has been an exceptional replacement.”

            There was several moments of silence from the two as Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea, waiting patiently for the two to absorb the information before he added, “and of course, Molly has fed you some of her blood to elongate your life, fighting the inevitability of your death. I always thought if she did turn, this would be your solution. Although a frowned-upon practice in the species, I highly doubt the Blind King minds. He and Cyrus were very close, you see. Well done, sister mine! What a perfect solution you have found.”

            “You _knew_?” Sherlock practically growled, leaning forward with eyes narrowed.

            “Have I just been speaking in tongues?” Mycroft rolled his eyes, “there are things that I know, that you don’t. But to clarify, I only knew that Molly had the genes. We were never sure whether she would actually turn into one but,” he gestured to his sister-in-law, “clearly, she went through the change. I assume it happened around the time you saw the Brothers watching her.”

* * *

 

            Mycroft left not long after that, his smile much too satisfied with the fact that Sherlock and Molly had been unable to recover from the shock of Mycroft’s easy knowledge of her true identity. They sat in silence together for about fifteen minutes, ramrod straight across from each other.

Molly felt ready to burst out of her skin. “Take me out for dinner,” she told her husband.

            “Good idea,” he smiled, “haven’t had good Italian in a while. What do you say?”

            Hand in hand they walked down the street to their favorite restaurant, the owner making a fuss over Sherlock, as always, and ensuring that they had a lit candle for the table, snuggled in the darkest corner of the restaurant, away from prying eyes. They sat together, facing the street and watching the people outside, Sherlocks arm draped carelessly behind Molly, her hand on his thigh.

            Lost in the whirlwind of the past few weeks, they hadn’t realized they’d ventured out on Halloween night until they saw the little monsters and superheroes that were running around the streets. Molly had laughed when a little boy dressed like Doctor Strange had run up to Sherlock outside 221B, and the little Doctor Strange had been so adorable that Sherlock had ducked back inside, coming back with a fist full of candy for the little boy.

            Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman sitting at the bar in a little black dress, watching Sherlock with interest, sipping her drink as if she were tasting him rather than the alcohol. Something inside Molly shivered to life, a possessiveness gripping the pit of her stomach and she resisted the urge to bare her fangs at the woman, to sink them into her husband’s neck and mark him as hers.

            _Mine_.

            Instead of hissing at the woman, Molly gripped the front of her husband’s shirt and drew him towards her, kissing him slowly and possessively. He was surprised for all of one second before drawing closer to her, opening his mouth and letting her kiss him slowly, thrusting her tongue into his mouth rhythmically, possessively. Releasing him, she grinned at the softness in his eyes, the dazed look in his pale, mercurial gaze, the tip of his pink tongue tracing his lips as if tasting her.

Molly took great satisfaction in the way the woman turned away with an expression filled with lust and surprise.

            Molly lay her head against his chest as Angelo brought them their red wine and steaming rolls of bread with a smile. Sherlock turned his head to press his lips to her forehead, laughing as a little child dressed like Khan from _Star Trek_ ran alongside Doctor Strange, peeling with giggles as a harassed looking dad with short auburn hair chased them.

            “I never liked Halloween,” Molly murmured, “but this year, I don’t mind it all that much.”

            “I’ve got a vampire in my bed, and I’ve been drinking her blood to keep me from dying before her,” he said flatly, “every day of our lives is Halloween now, Molly.”

            She laughed, drinking the wine and lifting a brow at the way Sherlock watched her with barely disguised hunger and desperation. With her mouthful of wine, she brushed her mouth to his and he drank from her, smiling at his groan. “Mmm,” she hummed against his mouth, “you and I need to buy this wine.”

             “Oh, my vampire wife,” he sighed, licking his lips, “I only need _you_.”

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed the dad chasing little Khan and Doctor Strange ;)
> 
> Thank you all SO much for reading!! Happy Halloween, and I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed bringing this universe to life. The original title was going to be the Vampire's Husband as homage to my other love, Nick Cave, but I kinda wanted the beginning to make you guess as to what was following her-- but the title of the story as well as the chapter titles are all based on Nick Cave songs and lyrics.
> 
> Putting Molly and her Sherlock in this situation has been rather fun, and I sincerely hope you'll check out my other works!

**Author's Note:**

> Dun dun dun!
> 
> I really look forward to your comments and feedback!!


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